


Orion in the Sky

by space_wingding



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bookshop Owner Draco Malfoy, Character Death, Chronic or Terminal Illness, Coffee, Death, Denial, Falling In Love, Fatal Curse, Frottage, Getting Together, Grief, H/D Hurt!Fest 2020, Hand Jobs, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hospitalization, Jigsaw Puzzles, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, St Mungo's Hospital, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhappy Ending, Village life, mentions of anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_wingding/pseuds/space_wingding
Summary: Draco Malfoy owns a bookshop in the Lake District. He’s also cursed. Enter: Harry Potter.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 50
Kudos: 181
Collections: H/D Hurt!Fest 2020





	1. Cursed

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to peachpety for being my alpha/beta/cheerleader/everything. I'm eternally thankful that you were there with me, every step of the way. Another million thanks to my other beta, sunnyeclipses, particularly for the quick read at the last minute. Thanks a ton to the mods for reviving and running this fest as well!
> 
> Special thanks to J for being my inadvertent muse.
> 
> And to my prompter and anyone else who reads this - I hope you enjoy it. This is for prompt#113.

As members of the Wizengamot funneled out of the courtroom, Draco stood unmoving and silent. He and his family had just gotten away with murder. Sort of. It had been difficult to pin specific deaths on the Malfoy family, but nobody could deny their hand in supporting the Dark Lord - a point that had caused their trial to drag on for days. 

Each day, Draco had donned a set of plain black robes to sit in front of the assembled. He barely remembered any of it now, even though it had all just happened. 

Beside him, his parents stood, ashen faces etched with disbelief. 

Draco tried to think of what to say. "I think I need a drink. I'll meet you back at the manor." 

With an absent nod from his father, he turned on his heel and left. 

The Ministry of Magic felt like a different place without the threat of imprisonment looming overhead. So did Diagon Alley. The sun was high, and the air was stifling in his heavy robes, but none of that mattered. Even the heat felt good, tinged now with freedom. Draco thought he could get used to this. He made his way towards the Leaky Cauldron through the bustling throngs of witches and wizards. Everyone seemed cheerful, and who could blame them? 

"Malfoy!" someone called. 

Draco turned, scanning the crowd for a face he recognised, but there were so many people, and the sun shone in his eyes. He was in an uncharacteristically good mood. 

"Malfoy!" came the voice again. 

Draco squinted. There was someone vaguely familiar who looked to be moving towards him, holding his gaze. He tried to place the man. Perhaps he had been in the Wizengamot. 

The man was close. Draco started moving towards him, then stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the man pull out his wand. 

The whole world seemed to slow down. People scattered, their mouths open in terror. The man moved his mouth as well, but Draco didn't hear anything. 

He didn't see anything either, except the bright blue sky above him turning black. 

**** 

Draco drummed his fingers against the side of the bed and sighed. 

He'd been in St. Mungo’s the last five days. Not that he remembered any of it. He'd only woken up late last night. Next to him stood a small table with a delicate silver contraption perched on top. 

"I suppose that isn't a get well gift," he said to the Healer who entered his room. 

She unfurled a roll of parchment, pushed her glasses up her nose, and said, "No, it isn't. It's for us to monitor your condition." 

"My _condition_? Aren't I fine? What's wrong with me?" he demanded. 

She eyed him over the parchment. "That's what this device is for. We'll know more in another 12 hours." 

That had been 12 hours ago. 

With nothing else to do, he was getting impatient. And irritable. His parents had been there when he woke up a few hours earlier that morning. Seeing them did little to improve his mood, and eventually, the Healer suggested it might be better to leave Draco alone for a few hours. 

A voice jarred him from his thoughts. "Mr. Malfoy." A different voice. A different Healer. He sat up and saw a short, stocky man standing beside him. Was this good or bad? 

"Good afternoon," he mumbled. 

More rolls of parchment were unfurled. The Healer dragged a chair beside the bed and sat down. Even though a scraggly, grey beard covered much of his face, it looked full of bad news. 

"I'm Healer Whitby," he said, extending a hand. 

Draco crossed his arms. "What's wrong with me? What even _happened_ to me?" 

Whitby took a breath. "You were cursed when you were in Diagon Alley -" 

"Yes, I remember that part, thank you. Now tell me what's _wrong_ with me." 

"You were hit with the Septicemia Curse." 

That sounded bad. "I'm going to need more information than that." 

"It's a curse that poisons the blood with a life-threatening infection. You lost consciousness because your body went into shock from the infection." 

Draco blinked. "But I'm fine now." 

Whitby furrowed his brow. "I'm afraid that's where this gets complicated. We were able to treat the emergent symptoms to bring you back from a critical state." He frowned as he looked at the parchment. Draco wondered how much practise this man had at delivering bad news. "We've been monitoring your condition however, and the infection poisoning your blood is still present. As of right now, we have no way to permanently treat the infection." 

"And what does that mean for me, long-term?" 

Whitby scratched his temple. "Well, with what is essentially poisoned blood flowing to all your organs, you have to consider the toll it will take on your body. Over time, it will be -" 

"Am I going to die?" 

Whitby finally looked up and met Draco's eyes. "Not right away." 

"But I will die." 

Whitby took a moment before finally saying, "Yes." He waited. Draco said nothing, so he continued. "There are potions you can take to manage the infection. You'll never be able to get rid of it completely, however, and it will take its toll on your internal organs over time." He paused again. "As time goes on, your body will fail. It's... not possible to say which organs may shut down first. We'll have to monitor you and manage your symptoms as they develop." 

Draco felt his mouth clench. He took several deep breaths, but they did nothing to calm him. He thought about his poisoned blood pumping through every part of his body. "How long do I have," he said flatly. 

"It's hard to say -" 

"Then guess!" 

Whitby sighed. "Probably no more than five years. But once you start taking potions to manage the infection, we'll have a much better idea. It could be longer." 

Five years. "Right." Five years was nothing. "When can I start taking these potions?" 

"We've already been administering one to you while you were unconscious." Whitby pulled out a small jar with thick blue liquid in it and placed it on the bedside table. "But now that you're awake, you can take it yourself." 

Draco picked up the jar and swirled the potion around. "Did you tell my parents?" 

"No. We can, with your permission. Or you can tell them." 

Draco nodded. There were microscopic flecks of gold in the potion. "How many others here know?" 

"Just one other, Healer Longford. You met her -" 

"Yes, fine. Let's keep this between us then." He unscrewed the cap and screwed it back on. "With this," - he waved the potion in the air - "you said I could manage the infection." 

"To a degree. But the damage is cumulative. All we can do is try to slow the progression. As your body starts to fail, we'll no doubt have to add more potions -" 

"All right, all right, I get it!" Draco snapped. "But in the meantime, I should be able to, you know, go on as normal? With my life?" 

Whitby shrugged. "More or less. I wouldn't recommend strenuous exercise, but you can have a mostly normal life." 

Mostly normal. Draco swallowed hard. "Good. What else is there? I want to get out of here today, you know. I have things to do." 


	2. Cartmel Books

Despite its remote location in a tiny Muggle village in the Lake District, Cartmel Books thrived. 

Situated along the main thoroughfare through the village, the squat bookshop stood between two restaurants and overlooked the River Eea. Rows of tall, walnut shelves crammed with books occupied the bulk of the shop. Mismatched, squashy armchairs populated various nooks where shelves wouldn't fit. A coat rack and a counter stood immediately to the left of the entrance. Next to the counter, there was a small table that always boasted a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of pastries. A stone fireplace stood in the back, warming a nook in the rear corner that offered a splendid view of the river. 

Draco woke up when the sun poured in through his bedroom windows. He showered, changed, and ate breakfast while reading The Daily Prophet. It was his only real link to the Wizarding World. 

He concluded his morning routine by checking the letterbox and placed a thin stack of envelopes on the kitchen table to read later. Post occasionally arrived from owls as well. Less often than it used to, but more often than Draco would have liked. And sure enough, an owl soared in that morning. He'd had a feeling. He removed the letter and watched the owl flap away, then took out his wand and cast _Incendio_. 

It was time to go to work. 

Draco made the short walk from his cottage to his bookshop, where he unlocked the door and brewed the first pot of coffee that morning. After a long winter, warm weather seemed like it was finally here to stay, for a while at least. 

Back inside, he took out his wand and cast several spells to dust the shelves, sweep the floor, and pour himself a cup of coffee. He locked his wand away in a drawer under the till and drew the curtains back to welcome the sun in, and then finally picked up his cup of coffee, which was now the perfect temperature. He'd arrived at the shop early, so there was enough time left before opening to enjoy it in the rear corner nook that faced the river. It was his favourite spot in the shop. 

The village saw a healthy dose of tourists in warm weather. Many stopped by to visit Cartmel Books, but Draco's shop also boasted a fiercely loyal customer base of locals. 

It had taken a while. 

He'd first arrived in Cartmel three years ago, having purchased a small cottage sight-unseen. It was an impulsive decision he'd made shortly after being released from St. Mungo's. Apparently the purchase created some bad blood between Draco and certain prominent inhabitants of the village. How was he to know the former owner of the cottage - who the hell even _named_ their house Primrose Cottage anyway? - had died, and their next of kin couldn't afford to pay taxes on it? That wasn't Draco's problem. 

Nonetheless, his arrival wasn't terribly welcome. 

It had taken a lot of effort and a lot of donations to various community programmes, but after two years, Draco had finally earned his place among the villagers. He was a local. 

Despite his best efforts, he'd gotten to know a number of them. But this turned out to be useful when he opened a bookshop a year ago. He had a guaranteed pool of customers right from the start. Not that there were other bookshops in Cartmel. 

Mrs. Wilder was first through the door, always showing up mere minutes after opening. She brought fresh pastries and sat down to have the second cup of coffee in the shop. 

All throughout the day, customers would come and go, some local, some not. Draco made sure there was fresh coffee, and when pastries ran out, he'd ask one of his regulars to keep watch for the five minutes it took for him to dash across the street to Mrs. Wilder's bakery. 

It was a simple life, but Draco had come to appreciate the space he'd carved out for himself, far away from anything and anyone he knew. 

In the evening, just before dinner time, Draco closed the shop. Once everyone had left, he locked the door and drew the curtains closed. He took his wand from the locked drawer under the till and cast spells to clean the coffee pot and dirty mugs, straighten the cushions on all the chairs, and return any estranged books to their shelves. 

There was just one thing left to do. 

Draco went to the back of the shop and unlocked the door to the tiny store room. Even though he was alone, he shut himself in. He sat down in the wooden chair at the desk, unlocked one of its drawers, and removed a jar of thick, blue potion that he'd been taking over the last three years. He unscrewed the top and downed it as quickly as possible. Immediately, his heart began pounding. A wave of icy shock seemed to course through his veins, and sweat beaded on his face. The world became tipsy, as though he'd had a few Firewhiskeys. He shut his eyes again and counted to ten. 

He counted slowly. 

His heart rate returned to normal, the shock of the cold faded, and when Draco opened his eyes again, the world had righted itself. Mostly. He let out a sigh of relief. He always hated this part. Even after three years. But for today, it was over, at least. 

After a few minutes, he put the empty jar into a box with other empty jars, wiped his face with a hand towel, and made sure to lock all the drawers. 

He locked the door to the store room, the shop, and retraced his steps from the morning back to Primrose Cottage, where there was no primrose. 

**** 

On a cool autumn morning, Draco frowned all the way from his cottage to the bookshop. He shoved his key in the door to unlock it. He jabbed his wand at the coffee maker to get a pot started. He slashed his wand around wildly, casting his usual battery of cleaning spells and spilling the first cup of coffee into his mug. After throwing his wand into the drawer and ripping the curtains aside, he snatched his mug and sat down in the rear corner nook to stare at the river. 

The day was a blur. An angry blur. 

Draco was restless. 

Customers came in and out. He might have waved or said hello and exchanged pleasantries with them. Perhaps some people bought things. He really couldn't remember. It was hard enough to remember to keep the pastry tray filled since his mind kept straying to the section of a Daily Prophet article he'd ripped out and brought with him to the shop that day, for reasons that were still unclear to him. When he was alone at the shop counter, which was often, he laid the article out and glared at the words, at the goofy expression of Harry Potter, who had decided that yesterday was a fine day to interrupt Draco's peace and patronise his establishment. 

Potter had strode through the door like he owned the place. Shock froze both of them as their eyes met, and as realisation hit, Draco felt his face contort into a rictus of horror. Before he could say anything, Potter cocked his head and gave an uncertain nod. Draco did not return it, nor did Potter seem to expect it. He disappeared amid the shelves. God, the nerve. 

Draco had considered trying to find and spy on him. Kick him out, perhaps. This was _his_ shop, after all. But he stood behind the counter, frozen in indecision all day. He didn't trust himself not to get into a shouting match with Potter, which was the last thing he wanted among all these people who had no idea of their past. 

When Potter finally emerged from the shelves again a few hours later to leave, he gave another, slightly more certain nod to Draco. 

Draco glared in return. 

That had been bad enough. Of course the damn press had followed Potter and snapped a photo as he left. Draco supposed he should be thankful that whoever had stalked Potter had avoided coming inside and discovering him as well. Probably frightened off by the presence of so many Muggles. Perhaps there were benefits to living among them, after all. 

But since Draco had avoided saying anything at all to Potter, he had no idea what the Chosen One was even doing here, in _his_ village, _his_ space. With any luck, it was just a singular occurrence, and Draco could continue to exist in peace. 

The door to the shop opened. Draco flinched. 

"Afternoon, Malfoy." 

He exhaled. "Afternoon, Browning." 

Browning, never one for much chatter, hung his coat on the rack by the door, poured himself a cup of coffee, and disappeared among the shelves. 

Draco's breathing had just returned to normal when the door opened again, and in sauntered Harry Potter. 

Again. 

Draco gripped the edge of the counter. 

Potter added his jacket to the coat rack and walked towards Draco, who averted his eyes. He'd seen people walk before. There was nothing special about Potter _walking_. 

He caught sight of the Daily Prophet clipping, with Potter's stupid face looking up at him, and snatched it away just as the living, breathing version came to a halt in front of the counter. 

"Malfoy." 

"Potter," he spat. 

"Fancy meeting you here." 

"Hardly. You were here yesterday." 

Potter ignored his jibe. "Is this your shop, or do you just work here?" 

"Does it matter?" 

"It's just... nice is all." Potter looked around. "Cosy." He gave a small smile. 

"I know it's nice." Draco drummed his fingertips on the counter. 

"Hey, Malfoy, we need more pastries," a voice interrupted. A small mercy. 

"I'm with a -" he sneered at Potter, "- customer, Carter. Give me a minute." 

"But the bakery's going to close soon!" 

" _In a minute_ ," he said through gritted teeth. "She won't close in one minute." 

"Friendly place," said Potter, who looked like he was struggling not to laugh. Draco hated him for looking so relaxed. So healthy. Like he'd really taken care of himself over the last three years. 

"You're welcome to leave." 

"I'll stay for now, thanks." 

"So long as you didn't bring any of your friends from the press," Draco said in a low voice. He clenched his fist under the counter, crushing the Prophet article and shoving it in his pocket. 

Potter ran a hand through his horribly messy hair. Somehow. "Look, I'm -" 

"I need to get more pastries." 

Draco stepped away to grab the empty pastry tray. He thought of Potter's crushed face in his pocket. 

**** 

On Sundays, the bookshop was closed. 

Three Sundays per month, Draco stayed home, assembling jigsaw puzzles and reading books all day. One Sunday per month, he Apparated to an alley in London just next to St. Mungo's, where he entered and made his way upstairs to the fourth floor. Occasionally, he exchanged a nod with the Welcome Witch as he strode right past. He never had to deal with her. 

He was a regular here, too. 

His heart always began to beat a little faster as he walked past the sign that read _Spell Damage_ , but he tried his best to ignore it. In front of Healer Whitby's office, he knocked. 

The door swung open. 

"Draco, good to see you," said Whitby. He sat behind his desk and waved Draco in. 

"I wish I could say the same." Draco threw himself into the chair in front of Whitby's desk. 

Whitby laughed and launched into the usual battery of questions to assess Draco's health. He cast spells to take Draco's weight, temperature, and assess various levels of who knew what. Draco didn't really care; he just shut his eyes and let the man work. 

When Whitby finally put his wand down to make some more scribbles on his parchment, Draco crossed his legs and asked, "So how much time have I got left? A week? Two?" 

"Oh, you're not doing that poorly." 

_Not yet_. Draco gave a resigned nod. He could never decide if this was good news. "But I'm not doing that great." 

Usually, Whitby gave a great laugh and said, "You got me there." This time, he screwed up his face in concern. 

Merlin, all these years and the man had never learnt how to deliver bad news. It was almost comical. Draco rolled his eyes. 

"Out with it, Whitby. I'm already a dead man walking. You can't tell me anything worse than that." 

"Have you been feeling light-headed or dizzy lately? More tired than normal?" 

Draco shifted in his seat. "Maybe a little." 

"Any chest pain?" 

"Some," he mumbled. 

Whitby nodded. "Your heart rate is abnormally high. Now -" 

"I'm not _doing_ anything, you know. No exercise, unless you count the walks to and from work." 

"How long are they?" 

Draco shrugged. "I don't know. Fifteen minutes." 

"That's fine. At any rate, as you might imagine, this is just the progressive nature of the curse, the infection. It's one of the early symptoms of..." He waved his hand in the air, beckoning the right phrase to appear. 

"Of my untimely demise?" 

Whitby sighed. "If you insist on putting it that way, yes. But you can manage this as well, with another potion." 

"Oh joy." 

"This one doesn't taste bad. It's just like drinking water, I promise. Let me go and get you some for the next month." 

"I need more of the other as well," Draco called. 

**** 

The next week, it began to rain. 

It rained every single day. 

Draco donned his Barbour jacket before leaving the cottage each morning and stepped through thick patches of wet leaves on his way to and from the book shop. 

It was November, which meant they were entering the low season for tourists, and this suited him just fine. With any luck, Potter would go away with the rest of them. 

But Potter strolled in each afternoon, much to Draco's dismay. He hung his wet coat to drip all over the rug and poured himself a cup of coffee before disappearing within the shelves. 

As if he were a regular. 

Draco rolled his eyes, but he didn't move. He watched the rain fall. He watched Potter's jacket continue to drip. He wondered what the hell Potter was doing in his shop. 

It was time to find out, he decided. 

He walked the perimeter of the shop, telling himself he was taking stock and making sure everyone was happy. When he got to the rear corner nook, he narrowed his eyes and halted. Potter's messy black hair poked up from the top of an armchair. His insides began to swim, and he just couldn't figure out why this was so awkward. This was Draco’s shop. This was also Potter. _He_ was the one out of place. 

"Potter," Draco barked. 

The head turned, and green eyes behind stupid glasses looked at him. 

"I need to check on the fire," he said, hoping he sounded authoritative. Or at least in command of his faculties. 

"Be my guest," Potter said, indicating the dying flames. "It's starting to get a little chilly over here." 

"That's what happens when you sit in a draughty corner." He gave Potter a sidelong glance and saw he wore a loose, charcoal jumper. Why did he never have clothes that fit properly? He wasn't that skinny any longer. He looked much healthier, more fit. Draco made haste in throwing a few logs onto the fire and turned to leave. He decided not to tell Potter about the blankets he kept behind the counter. His regulars knew about them, knew to ask for one if they needed. 

Potter was not a regular. 

"Thanks, Malfoy." 

Draco paused again. Turned back around. There was another chair. And he so desperately wanted to know what Potter was doing here, so that he could enjoy kicking his arse out even more. 

He sat down in the chair, across from Potter, who looked up at him in surprise. 

"What are you doing here in _my_ shop?" he hissed. 

"Ah, so you do own it." 

Potter had his legs crossed, and something was propped on his knee. 

"Yes. Now what are you doing here?" 

"I'm writing," he said with a smile. He held up the thing propped against his knee, which turned out to be a black leather notebook. 

"There must be hundreds of bookshops in this country. Why are you haunting mine?" 

"Well," said Potter with a very sincere expression, "I heard the coffee was really good here." 

Draco glared. "You don't expect me to believe you've come all the way out here for coffee," he spat. 

"Maybe you don't know me very well then. And what are _you_ doing out here anyway?" 

"Running a bookshop," Draco said evenly. He sat back and crossed his arms, daring Potter to try again. 

Potter rolled his eyes. He looked annoyed, exasperated. _Good_. "Obviously. But I mean, you kind of disappeared. And nobody knows where. Not even your friends." He cocked his head. "Not even your parents." 

Draco waved a hand. "Don't believe everything you hear." 

"Your _parents_ ," Potter repeated. "They don't know where you are." 

"Have you been _searching_ for me?" Draco's anger was tempered by a stab of satisfaction when he saw Potter's face flush red. So. This was it then. 

"No." 

What a fucking liar. Draco thought about fetching his wand right then. He'd Obliviate Potter and send him on his merry way back to London or wherever the hell it was he had lived before barging in on Draco's existence. 

"I promise, I wasn't looking for you. Nobody sent me to find you," Potter said quickly, perhaps sensing that Draco was considering something drastic. 

"You'd better explain why you're here then." 

"I really am writing," Potter spluttered. He picked up the notebook and began thumbing through it. "My grandparents, they used to live here. I only found out recently. I wanted to see what it was like here. Learn about them. Maybe write a book." 

Draco stared into his eyes, trying to gauge how truthful he was being. He'd never learnt Legilimency though, and he never trusted anyone these days, so it was difficult. How much did he want to trust Potter? Now that was interesting to consider. He thought back to the day they'd first arrived at Hogwarts, when he'd offered Potter his hand, only to be rejected. Somehow, this felt like a second opportunity, only it felt like Potter was the one extending his hand this time. It felt good. 

And Potter looked like he was being truthful, didn't he? He looked so earnest, almost desperate. It practically radiated off him. Draco took a moment to revel in it. He didn't completely believe Potter's story, but perhaps it would be fine. After all, Potter would finish up with whatever it was and leave soon enough. 

"Fine," Draco said. The relief that spread through Potter's face was palpable. Draco watched his entire body relax, sagging into the chair. He averted his eyes, and spied the clock. "It's time for you to leave," he said. "I need to close the shop." Thank Merlin. 

"Oh, okay, but -" 

But Draco had already gotten up and marched past him. He went around to all the other reading nooks, gently reminding everyone that it was closing time, then returned to his counter at the front. All the stragglers were regulars, and nobody was buying anything on their way out that day. They all stacked their blankets on top of the counter and wished Draco a pleasant evening. 

"I didn't know you had blankets," said Potter, the last to leave. He frowned. 

Draco picked up the stack and placed it on a shelf beneath the counter, out of sight from nosy visitors. "Now you know." 

"Don't you think it might help business if you made them more available to your customers?" 

"Business is fine, and they're for my regulars." He crossed his arms, hoping that would drive the point home. 

"I've been coming here everyday for almost two weeks," said Potter, and he leaned one arm on the counter. 

"That doesn't mean anything to me. People have visited this area for three or four weeks in the past." 

Potter cocked his head. "So what does it take to be classified as a regular around here then?" 

Draco narrowed his eyes. "A land deed." 

That sent Potter on his way. Victory. 

Draco locked the door after him and drew all the curtains. He got out his wand and went through his evening routine. He took his potions. He put his jacket on and walked through the wind and rain back to his poorly named house. 

**** 

When Potter came into the shop the next day, he hung up his soggy, sleet-covered jacket. Instead of nodding at Draco, pouring himself a cup of coffee, and disappearing to the rear corner nook like he was supposed to, he approached the front counter. 

"What," said Draco. He had a book splayed open. Didn't he look busy? 

Potter looked him in the eye as he drew a piece of paper from his pocket and slapped it down, right on top of Draco's book. 

Draco frowned. 

"There's my deed. Can I have a blanket?" 


	3. His Charm

Winter wended its way into the village slowly but surely, blanketing all the buildings and roads with a respectable amount of snow. 

And throughout it all, Potter insisted on showing up at the bookshop every afternoon. 

Draco had looked at Potter's deed, of course. He was pleased to note that Potter lived on the opposite side of the village. Not that this meant much, since Cartmel only had a dozen streets. They ran into each other occasionally outside of the bookshop. Mostly, it was in the grocery shop. That could hardly be helped. It served as a sort of informal meeting space. Everybody went there, and so you were guaranteed to know everyone you ran into, which easily added an extra half-hour of time to the chore. 

Draco found it exhausting. From what he had observed, Potter seemed to relish it. Worse, Potter seemed to weasel his way in with all the locals in record time. Even old Mr. Browning - the last of the village council to approve Draco's plan to open the bookshop - regularly exchanged more than two sentences with Potter. Nobody seemed immune to his charm. 

It was maddening. Especially when Draco considered that Potter had even started getting under _his_ skin. He no longer flinched when Potter came into the bookshop. He grudgingly handed over a blanket to Potter as well, though Draco always waited for him to ask. 

More and more often, they exchanged pleasantries. Neither probed the other about their reason for living in Cartmel, however. And considering that none of Draco's friends or family came pounding on his door, Potter clearly had not shared Draco's whereabouts with anyone. 

It made one wonder. 

**** 

Winter was harsh that year. It was a universally agreed upon truth in the village. 

Draco bought new boots in London after his December appointment at St. Mungo's. His Christmas gift from Whitby that year was a ban on caffeine, since it elevated his already-precarious heart rate. He made sure to buy the most expensive boots he could find from some Muggle shop. He had no desire to visit Diagon Alley. He hadn't been back since he'd been cursed. 

When the holidays came around, Draco closed the bookshop for an entire week. As he locked the door on the evening of the 23rd, he felt relief. No Potter for an entire week. That in itself was a gift. He hoisted a bag with enough potions to last him the week onto his shoulder and crunched through the snow in his new boots. It was a quiet, clear evening, and the moon illuminated his walk home. 

On Christmas, Draco awoke to tapping on his bedroom window. He pried it open to let in his mother's owl. A barn owl flew in out of nowhere just behind her. Draco stuck his head outside. "Well?" he called to the trees. Thank god he didn't have neighbours. One more owl came swooping down to join the others in a pile of melting snow on his bedroom floor. He made short work of separating them from his post, and they took off immediately. Brushing snow off his knees, he stood and took stock of the small pile of parcels. 

A dilemma. 

Draco decided to leave them there for now. He had breakfast, minus coffee. He turned on the Muggle tele-thing. He didn't really watch it very often. Usually just on holidays. It had come with the house, and he hadn't bothered to get rid of it. 

Eventually though, he returned to the bedroom to glare at the parcels. 

He should have just cast _Incendio_ on all of them. Against his better judgement, he knelt down and opened them all. There were cards and letters. Jumpers and sweets, and a gaudy Christmas mug. He already had plenty of mugs and jumpers, and he didn't need sweets. 

He put everything away before returning to the cards and letters. It amazed him that after so long, people still insisted on contacting him. When were they going to figure it out? When were they going to just bloody give up already? 

He grabbed his wand from the drawer of his bedside table and levelled it at the stack of correspondence. " _Incendio_." 

Mrs. Wilder had invited him to her house for Christmas, as she had done the last three years. She promised a celebration that would knock his socks off. Draco thanked her and said he had plans. He wondered if she had invited Potter as well. Then he wondered what Potter was up to for the holidays. Perhaps he was stuck in a tiny cottage on the opposite end of the village, wishing everybody could just leave him alone so he could die in peace, without burdening anybody. 

Perhaps not. 

Draco made dinner and spent the evening working on a 5000-piece jigsaw puzzle. 

By the end of the week, he had finished it. 

**** 

One thing Draco liked about village life was that not all that much changed. The seasons. The tourists. That was pretty much it. 

There was a certain comfort to be had in knowing what was going to greet him every single day. His barren bedroom. His sombre face in the mirror. His fifteen-minute walk from the cottage to the bookshop. His slow but steady decline. 

As he prepared to leave his house one morning, Draco stood in the bedroom for a long moment and eyed a large box sitting on the floor. He shrunk it with his wand, then tucked both into his jacket pocket. His walk to the bookshop was distracted. He trampled several patches of delicate flowers signalling the early arrival of spring. Immediately upon entering, he went into the tiny store room in the back and removed the box from his pocket to enlarge and then open it. 

Draco began unpacking another month's supply of the blue potion and the clear potion. There was also a month's supply of two new potions - some thick, green sludge and something else that looked the colour of morning piss. 

This was getting ridiculous. 

Perhaps he could just stop with all this nonsense and let himself die. It wasn't like he had much to live for. He couldn't even have caffeine any longer. It wasn't like his family or friends would know. When he passed, nobody would miss him. And wasn't that exactly what he wanted? Why he cut everyone off? It was the only thing that had helped him feel comfortable with death, knowing that he wouldn't be missed. 

Of course, there was the problem of Potter. Though strangely, for some reason, he'd kept his word. He seemingly hadn't mentioned Draco to anyone. 

Finished unpacking everything at last, Draco sat down and plucked a flask each of his two new potions, which Whitby had instructed him to take each morning. He couldn't decide which looked less disgusting, so he uncorked both bottles, grabbed one in each hand, closed his eyes, and tossed them back in rapid succession. 

Something... distinctly odd was happening. Some kind of electric jolt began in his toes and worked its way up. It was tingly and uncomfortable, and the feeling quickly morphed into hundreds of quick, tiny stabs of pain. He hunched over the desk when it reached his chest, which felt like it would explode. What the hell had Whitby given him? Draco never listened when Whitby performed new tests or gave him new things. He'd long since stopped caring. None of it mattered anyway. 

Well, except it seemed to matter now, at least. Wouldn't it be something if he just fell over dead in this tiny room? While he tried not to yell out from the pain, Draco tried to distract himself by imagining who might find his body. But the pain vanished before he could decide who the lucky person might be. The tightness in his chest, which had been a new and persistent presence recently, lessened, and he could breathe a little easier. 

While he sat, regaining his composure, someone began rapping at the front door outside. Draco hastily locked drawers, threw glass jars into a box, and exited the store room, making sure to lock it behind him. A glance at the clock revealed it was now opening time, so that was probably Mrs. Wilder out front, anxious for her coffee. He would have to make some adjustments to his morning routine. 

Still a little disheveled, Draco quickly cast his usual cleaning charms around the place and started a pot of coffee. He tossed his wand in the drawer under the till, opened the door, and sure enough, Mrs. Wilder made a beeline for the coffee pot, placing a tray of fresh pastries next to it. 

"Er, it's not ready yet," he said, sheepish. 

"Not ready? How many times have I told you that I need my coffee exactly at nine?" She looked angry, but the corners of her mouth struggled not to twitch upward. 

"Just a few more minutes. You can help me with the curtains while we wait." He began drawing the curtains back, letting in the weak spring sunlight. 

"No thank you," she said, and she leaned back on the wall next to the coffee pot, watching it. "You know, I may be old, but I can't remember a time when you've been late to open," she said when he returned. 

"Really," he said. He settled into his chair behind the counter. 

"Really. Now what's happened to throw Mr. Prim and Proper off schedule?" She picked up a mug as soon as the coffee finished brewing and poured. "Did you have a wild night last night?" 

Draco snorted. "Is that even possible here?" 

"Maybe that's the problem." The twinkle in her eye reminded Draco of Dumbledore just then, and he felt a little faint. 

"There is no problem. I just slept late." He was starting to wish she'd leave. 

"Have you met Harry yet? Just moved here some months ago. I think you two would really get on. You could use a friend your age." 

Draco bristled. Ah yes, that was what he needed. Potter. "I've met him. He's," - what to say about Potter, hm - "not really my type. Of friend." Heat rose in his face, and Mrs. Wilder eyed him over her coffee mug. 

"Well," she said, placing her mug in the dirty dish container, "suit yourself, but he's a very charming young man." She flashed a smile at him and finally left. 

There was blissful silence for much of the morning. Draco sat behind the counter and read, occasionally nodding or waving at the handful of customers that came in and out. It was a pleasant, normal day, and when Potter walked in mid-afternoon, it was still a pleasant, normal day, because he was no longer a poisonous intrusion in Draco's life. 

He was a regular. 

Over the last few months, a sort of tacit agreement had emerged between them. One of polite indifference. Potter would enter, they would exchange greetings, and Potter would disappear to the rear corner nook with a cup of coffee. In the evening, Draco would remind his customers he'd be closing the shop, and he and Potter would exchange farewells. 

Somewhere in that routine, Potter started to _regularly_ be the last customer out the door, and more and more often, he'd stop by the front counter to chat for a few moments with Draco. 

Draco remembered the day Potter started hanging back to chat very well. It was _not_ because Potter had said he liked Draco's jumper. It was because he'd received a new 5000-piece puzzle in the post - his second. 

He realised he was wearing that same midnight blue jumper today, for early spring in the Lake District was still quite cold. For no reason whatsoever, he put his book down and began walking the perimeter of the shop, just to make sure everyone was doing fine. His steps slowed as he approached the rear corner nook, and his heart raced. Perhaps he needed to sit down. He smoothed his jumper and took a seat in the chair opposite Potter. 

"Oh, hullo," said Potter, who didn't look at all angry to have had his peace disturbed. In fact, he had the gall to smile. 

"Potter." He tugged his sleeves and crossed his legs, and Potter just sat there and watched him expectantly. "I can sit here you know," he blurted. 

Potter blinked. "I don't mind. It's your shop." Well at least he understood that. 

They continued to watch each other. This was mad. How could Potter still make him feel so... _uncomfortable_ after so many years? Draco cast about for words. "I - um. This. Well." Complete sentences. "I'm getting new coffee. Later. This week." Well, that was close. 

"Oh, brilliant! Although, I'm really liking this stuff." Potter indicated his nearly-empty cup. 

"I can get you a refill." 

"Erm, all right, sure, that would be lovely." 

Draco snatched Potter's cup and woodenly shuffled away to refill it. 

"Perfect, thanks," Potter smiled when he returned. Against his better judgement - perhaps it had been Potter's smile - Draco sat down again. 

Interesting that Potter didn't even seem to consider Draco might have added something to his coffee. Bitterness could mask a lot of tastes, a lot of potions. He'd been a dunce at Potions, but surely he must know that? Then again, there was a lot about Potter that confused Draco. Why come here, of all places, to write? Had he known Draco was here, and if so, how had he found out? There were so many things he wanted to know, and he reasoned this was why he had continued to suffer Potter's existence. Because he wanted to know. Needed to know. 

Eventually. 

Now. 

"Potter," he began, and green eyes looked into his. "What have you told people about... this? My shop?" 

If Potter was surprised, he didn't look it. "You mean, if you own it?" 

"Things of that nature, yes." 

"I haven't said anything to anyone. I value my privacy too, you know." 

"Yes," Draco said. "That would certainly explain why the Daily Prophet followed you here on your first visit." 

Potter at least had the decency to look apologetic. "That wasn't supposed to happen, but... look, they haven't been back." He ran a hand through his hair. "I know people. They were quick to put a stop to it. And I mean, nobody else from - er, back home - has been here, right?" 

Potter _knew people_. God, but of course he did. "You're the only one." 

"Any chance you're going to tell me why you care so much?" 

"Not today." 

"But someday." 

Draco glared. 

Potter smiled. 

**** 

Spring brought warm weather, eventually, but harsh winds kept all the villagers tucked in their jumpers well into June. Draco especially found he was having more and more trouble keeping himself warm, and the heat in the city was a small relief when he Apparated back to London for his monthly appointments with Whitby. 

"Well, what is it now?" He sat back in his usual chair in front of Whitby's desk. 

"Your respiratory functionality is - er, let's say -" 

"It's shite. Trust me, I'm very well aware of that." 

Whitby looked apologetic. "Yes. It seems even the potions you've been taking these last few months are no longer sufficient." 

"I know that, too. It's rather difficult to be unaware of my own chest pain. So then, what can we do about it?" 

"We can try a few more potions. However, you really - and I can not emphasise this enough - you really aren't in a fit state to travel by Floo or Apparition any longer. In addition to everything else, your bones are getting fragile, and they can't handle such trauma." 

Draco blinked. And panicked. "I'm not - there's no way I'm moving to London. No way." Not with Diagon Alley there, and so many of his former friends and acquaintances. 

"Draco -" 

"No. Fuck you. I'd sooner stop taking all these potions and just die already. I'm not moving here." 

There was a long moment of silence, and then Whitby leaned forward and steepled his fingers on top of his desk. 

"Well, we have two options then. You can take the train here and back, but I think you'll find that quite exhausting. I can also come to you every month." 

Draco frowned. "You mean like a house call?" 

Whitby smiled. "Exactly like a house call." 

"I don't have my house connected to the Floo." 

Whitby shrugged. "I can Apparate." 

He only had to consider it for a moment. "Fine." 

"Wonderful. Now, write down your address for me, and I'll get these potions." He tore off a piece of parchment and pushed it across the desk, along with a quill. 

When Whitby returned, they discussed the various potions he would try, and doses. Draco was instructed to begin keeping a journal of his symptoms and how the potions affected him. Whitby gave him a portkey as well, in case Draco found himself in some kind of medical emergency. It would take him directly to the critical care ward in St. Mungo's. 

Since he could no longer travel by Floo or Apparition, Draco was stuck taking the train back home that day. He didn't mind though. Sunday afternoon didn't seem to be a terribly busy time, and he had an entire compartment to himself. He sat watching the landscape change, fingering the portkey in his pocket. He wondered how much longer he had left. He wondered if he would actually use the portkey, if it came to that. 

Probably not. 

**** 

"You don't look so good," Potter said one evening. 

In addition to the bevy of potions and journal-keeping, a conversation with Potter at the close of every evening had crept its way into Draco's daily routine. 

"Thank you. I do try my best for you, you know." 

"That's not what I meant." Potter made a face. A stupid one. "You just look ill, that's all. I'm worried about you." 

If only he knew. "I'll be fine." For some definition of 'fine'. 

"Are you sure it's nothing serious? You've been looking this way for a while." 

Potter looked genuinely concerned. Damn. 

"How about you just trust that I'm doing what I need to?" 

A sheepish grin broke out over Potter's face. "Sorry. I just like to help. If there's anything I can do..." 

Of course. Potter the Saviour. Always had to have his nose in everybody's business. 

But he wasn't wrong. Draco felt as though he'd been run down by a troll. He had been testing out combinations of potions to find something that helped his respiratory problems and did not make him feel like hell. Whitby had said it would take a bit of trial and error. Well, it had certainly been a trial. And this whole thing was starting to feel like a gross error. 

He sighed. Perhaps he could take Potter up on his offer, just this once. Just to wipe that look off his face. What could it hurt? 

"Do you have your wand on you?" 

"Of course," said Potter - a little too eagerly for Draco's liking - and he reached into his bag. 

"Don't," said Draco. "Not yet." He moved to lock the door to the shop. "Help me draw all the curtains, first. Can't have anyone see what we're about to get up to." Potter's eyes went wide, and his mouth quirked into a smile. Draco turned quickly to begin with the curtains. _Damn._ "You can start on the other side of the shop." 

They met in the middle, in the back. Draco fetched his wand, and Potter brought his out. "I usually just cast some charms to clean up a bit. Put all the books back, straighten the cushions, clean all the dishes and the coffee pot. That sort of thing." 

Potter nodded. "I can manage that." 

Unfortunately, Draco hadn't considered that Potter might want to stick around and continue talking once they'd finished cleaning up. He still had to take his potions, which had become a much more involved process now. 

They made their way to the front. Draco took his time fiddling with the till one last time, hoping Potter would leave. Except he just stood there, watching Draco with a stupid grin on his face. Merlin, what was wrong with him? 

"So what do you normally do after work?" said Potter. 

"Oh. Well, not much. I usually just go home." 

"Have you been to any of the restaurants around here?" 

"Not exactly." 

"What? You've been here... how long? And you haven't tried any of the restaurants?" Potter looked incredulous. 

"Four years, and no." 

"You are aware that Cartmel is famous for its dining options, right? And that your shop is between _two_ restaurants?" 

"Potter, I don't really care. And frankly, I'm not interested in going to a nice restaurant _alone_." 

"Well, how about we go together?" Potter said quietly. 

He'd walked right into that one, hadn't he? He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't - I don't know." 

"Then how about we get takeaway from somewhere?" 

The worst part was that Draco wanted to say yes. He didn't _like_ Potter per se, but he certainly no longer loathed him. It was fair to say that he enjoyed their chats at the end of the day. Potter was easy to talk to, and it was a nice break in the monotony. 

"I - I have to do something." 

"That's all right, I can wait." Potter smiled with what Draco suspected was supposed to be encouragement. Under the safety of the counter, he tugged at his sleeves. 

"How about another time? I'm just - you're right, I'm not feeling well. I just want to lie down right now." 

"Of course, yeah." Potter shifted his bag higher up his shoulder. "Well, let's head out together at least then?" 

Draco's heart clenched, and he gave a tight smile. Why was it so hard to just lie to Potter and kick him out? He reached for his own bag, and they left the shop. They'd part ways in just a moment anyhow, and Draco could head back to the shop to take his potions then. 

"Good night then," said Potter. 

"See you tomorrow." It wasn't even a question. 

Draco counted to five, pretending to check his bag for something, then looked back to check that he was alone. And froze in horror. 

Potter had looked back as well. He _smiled_. 

Fuck. 

His legs began moving. He had to get out of sight. He had to forget about that smile. 

He had to take his damn potions, he realised, as soon as his cottage came into view. 

He ran all the way back to the shop. Whitby would have killed him. 

**** 

Draco suspected that Potter would try again with a dinner invitation, and he was right. 

Fortunately, he was ready. 

"So, how come you haven't been to any of the restaurants around here?" Potter asked. He'd decided to approach Draco as soon as he entered the shop the very next day. 

"I just prefer to cook for myself." Potter gave him a disbelieving look. "It really is that simple. I'm not having you on." 

"You don't ever get the urge to try something new?" 

Draco sighed. "Potter -" 

"How about tonight?" 

"I - I have -" 

"Things to do, I know," said Potter. "But you have to eat sometime, right?" 

Draco took a deep breath, wondering how much he would regret this. "It's important I keep to my schedule. If you can wait after I close, then -" 

"Brilliant." Potter positively beamed, and Draco was slightly taken aback. "How long do you think you'll need?" 

"About half an hour." 

"I could go pick up food in that time." 

Draco thought for a moment. Perhaps this really could work. "Sure." 

The afternoon passed in the blink of an eye and not quickly enough. Draco fidgeted in his chair, reading the same page in his book a dozen times. Three of his regulars asked if he was feeling well. When he went to refill the pastry tray at Mrs. Wilder's bakery across the street, she gave him an odd smile. 

In the evening, as all the regulars bade farewell, Potter loomed behind, as usual. He leaned on the counter. "So, what do you feel like having?" 

Draco tried to swallow around the dry, spongy mass that had once been his tongue. He wasn't used to Potter being so close. "I guess anything." He didn't really know what was around. 

"Wouldn't have guessed you were so easy to please." Potter smiled, and Draco stared after him as he left. 

The sound of the door shutting brought him to his senses, and Draco made a mad dash for the store room, locking himself in and yanking potions out of drawers as quickly as he could. He lined them all up on the desk and waved his wand to uncork them. One by one, he downed them all and chucked the empty jars into the box next to his desk. He and Whitby seemed to have finally come to an amenable combination and dosage of potions to regulate his respiratory functionality without leaving him feeling terrible for the entire day. Unfortunately, those potions still had him hunched over the desk in pain for several minutes while his insides swam and he waited for them to take effect. 

The residual discomfort from taking his potions lasted for several more minutes after Draco regained control of himself, but he winced and sat up, locking the drawers and closing the box where he collected empty jars. Finally, he stood and exited quietly. When he pulled the key from the door and turned around, he nearly leapt in surprise. 

"You're back already," he said. Potter was standing at the front counter with a sack of takeaway containers, watching him. 

"Of course I'm back. It's been nearly 40 minutes." He looked... well, not angry, at least. Confused, maybe. 

"Right." 

"Well, shall we?" Potter picked up the food and started making his way back towards the rear corner nook. Draco followed, and saw that Potter had left all his belongings there. 

"You didn't pack your things," he said, while Potter removed and opened several cartons and handed him a plate and utensils. 

"Well, yeah. I was planning on coming back." Potter smiled. "I hope you like Chinese food?" 

It turned out Draco did like Chinese food. 

Food, it seemed, made conversation flow a lot easier. Or perhaps Potter came prepared with topics he wanted to discuss. Either way, it was not the stilted, awkward affair Draco feared it might be. And when they finished, Potter helped to clean up around the shop and suggested they leave together. 

Draco thought it was silly, since they split to go their separate ways about two minutes after exiting the shop, but it seemed far easier to just give in to this small request, especially since he'd already taken his potions. 

It was hot outside that evening, and the streets were lined with all sorts of tiny wildflowers that liked to bloom during summer and thrill tourists. 

"See you tomorrow, Potter." 

"Good night, Draco." 

**** 

The rest of summer proceeded without much fanfare. There were a lot of tourists that year, and Draco's bookshop saw a number of visitors. Thankfully, his health seemed to remain stagnant, which was more than he could ask for these days. And most nights as he closed the shop, Potter would say something like, "I'll be back with dinner," or "Chips and sandwiches tonight?" 

It was so presumptuous of him, and yet Draco felt disappointed on the nights Potter just spoke to him for a few minutes and left. If he was being honest, it was nice to have something to look forward to after suffering in the tiny store room while he took his potions. But he didn't need it. He didn't need to have dinner with Potter. It was enough that he saw him everyday. And so while Draco could never ask Potter to stay, he could never turn Potter away either. 

They fell into easy conversation most days. Potter talked about his newfound interest in gardening, and Draco revealed his jigsaw puzzle habit. Coffee was a daily topic. Even though Draco could no longer have any, he enjoyed living vicariously through Potter and his love for the stuff. Every so often, they broached topics concerning the Wizarding world, although Potter seemed to understand that Draco had clearly shut the door on his old life. Draco dared to take a chance one day and ask what Potter worked on when he came into the shop to write. 

"A biography of my grandparents," he said. 

Draco decided he believed him this time and asked more about their lives. It wasn't that he cared. As Potter blabbed, Draco only half-listened, enthralled more at the sight of him so lively and energetic. He tried to remember the last time he'd felt that way about anything, and if his eyes had ever lit up like Potter's. 

It took longer than it should have for Draco to realise he was destroying the very things he'd come to Cartmel for - distance and isolation. 

In retrospect, he should have noticed it sooner. But he was out of practise. He had been caught unaware. And he never would have believed he had reason to imagine Potter might come to regard him with anything approaching... fondness. 

Yes, that was what it was. Fondness, and some sense of camaraderie, though over what, Draco couldn't imagine. They shared nothing from their past; their experiences in the war differed vastly. He wanted to ask Potter what had changed, why he suddenly seemed to care. But he didn't want to know. Not really. That would only invite further discussion about Merlin-knew-what. 

It didn't seem fair. Draco had planned for death, not this. Whatever 'this' was. 

He was already beginning to feel guilty. Like he should push Potter away. He knew he would have to someday, to spare him the same pain as everyone else he cared for. Though - did he really care for Potter? That seemed a stretch. 

He surely didn't _hate_ Potter now. It was impossible to make that claim. Not when he dined and laughed together with him most nights of the week. Not when he welcomed and thanked Potter for his help cleaning the shop each evening. Not when he realised he liked the way 'Draco' sounded coming out of his mouth, which always turned up slightly as the last syllable escaped. 


	4. If He'd Noticed

Autumn in the Lake District arrived early that year and appeared anxious to push summer out of the way. It seemed everyone had just folded away their jumpers and coats, only to unpack them again so quickly. 

It was an especially chilly day in September when Draco left his cottage and walked past a large patch of purple asters into the wooded area behind his home. He arrived at a clearing and stopped, pulling his coat around him. 

A minute later, or possibly a few, a crack resonated, and Whitby stood before Draco in the clearing, hair in disarray. 

"Oh, this is a fine afternoon. A fine afternoon," said Whitby by way of greeting. 

Draco rolled his eyes and began heading back to his cottage. "It's like this everyday." 

"Well, consider yourself lucky then." 

Inside, Whitby took a seat while Draco prepared tea. He let Whiby drone on about this and that while they drank, until finally, both their cups were emptied. Whitby's gaze darted to the windows, making sure the curtains were drawn, before reaching into his bag and withdrawing his wand. 

"Are you ready?" he asked. 

Draco stilled himself and closed his eyes. "Just get on with it." 

Whitby cast whatever spells he needed in order to assess how terribly Draco was doing. It took several minutes. Draco focused on the sound of the flames crackling in the fireplace, and Whitby paused at various intervals to scratch notes onto his parchment. Draco waited until he said, "All finished," before opening his eyes. 

"Am I dead yet?" he asked. 

Whitby did not look amused. "You need to eat more. I expect you're having difficulty keeping warm?" 

"Have been for a while. It's nothing an extra jumper can't help." 

"You won't be saying that once winter sets in. Not up here." 

Draco scowled. "Let me guess. There's a potion I can take for that." 

"You don't need me after all," said Whitby, grinning. 

"My chest has been hurting again. Just a little." 

Whitby nodded and looked around. "I expect it has. Where is your journal?" 

Draco stood, but froze immediately once he realised it wasn't anywhere in the cottage. "It's not here." 

Whitby frowned. "What do you mean it's not here?" 

"I mean it's not here. What else can that mean? Just give me a half-hour, I left it in the bookshop." 

Potter was to blame for this, of course. The night before, he'd arrived back at the shop early with their dinner. Usually he waited for Draco in the rear corner nook. This time though, he'd knocked on the door to the store room just as Draco was emerging from his haze of misery. Dazed and panicked, he'd cleared things away in a rush. He couldn't remember locking the door and didn't need Potter barging in. It was sheer luck that he'd managed to throw potions for Sunday into his bag, but that luck didn't extend to the journal, which lay forgotten on the desk. 

Whitby stood when Draco began putting on his jacket. "I'll go with you." 

"No." 

"I'm dressed well enough like a Muggle. Nobody will know. Besides, I've always wanted to see this bookshop of yours." Whitby began putting on his jacket as well. 

"No. How many times have I got to say it?" 

"What are you so afraid of?" Whitby suddenly became serious, and Draco tensed. 

"Nothing!" 

"Consider it a personal favour then," Whitby said with a grin, "for all these years I've had to deal with you." 

Draco snatched his keys from the ring next to the front door. "Fine. Don't dawdle then." 

He walked quickly along the path to the bookshop, Whitby trailing in his wake. A brisk wind had moved in, and there were few people out in the village that day. A small mercy. 

"I'll just have a look around," Whitby murmured once inside the shop. He disappeared among the shelves without waiting for a response. 

Draco made his way to the store room to quickly grab his journal from the desk. "Here," he said when Whitby appeared again, thrusting it at him. 

Whitby took it and began flipping through the previous month's notes Draco had kept. He paused on a page and nodded. "Yes, all right," he said to himself, then flipped a few more pages. "So, we can increase your dosage of this one as long as we no longer increase that one." With one hand, he clamped the book shut and handed it back. 

"That's it?" said Draco. 

"That's it." 

"Then let's leave." 

Whitby gave him a look, but didn't say anything until they stepped outside. "Shall we have dinner somewhere?" 

"I don't think so." 

Draco's hand shook as he pulled out his keys. All the blood seemed to rush from his head then, and he winced at his sudden light-headedness. The sound of keys hitting the ground dragged his gaze downward, and the world seemed to spin. Whitby's hands gripped his arms the next moment, and Draco found his back being gently pressed up against the door. 

"Deep breaths," said Whitby, his voice low. 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose as he inhaled, counting to five, then exhaled, counting to five. He wished he could die just then. 

Whitby left him to lean against the door while he picked up the keys. He nudged Draco to the side a little so he could lock the door. 

After a few minutes of deep breaths, Draco began to feel better. He looked down at Whitby and saw the resigned look on his face. 

"Don't," said Draco. "Don't say anything." 

Whitby squeezed his shoulder and handed over the keys. 

Draco gave a cursory glance around as he shoved his keys into his pocket. He did a double-take when his eyes latched onto a familiar figure that came to a sudden halt at the end of the street. A very familiar figure. One with messy hair and bright green eyes that shifted from Draco to Whitby, confused. 

Draco swallowed and felt himself flush. Honestly, of all the people he could have seen out here. He tore his gaze away from Potter and turned on his heel to begin walking back to his cottage. 

"Slow down," Whitby called, rushing to catch up. 

"This is the pace I always go." He was dying to look back. 

Whitby caught up and reached for Draco's arm. "What's the rush?" 

Draco slowed and shook him off. If Potter was still there - and Draco felt certain he was - there was no need for him to see this. No need for him to see anything. He knew it had been a mistake to bring Whitby to the bookshop. 

"I just want to get home, that's all." 

Whitby snorted. "Big evening planned?" 

Draco scowled. He wondered if Potter was still standing at the end of the street, or if he was perhaps trying to follow behind and eavesdrop. 

He kept a steady pace the rest of the way back to the cottage, where he marched them right past it, through the patch of asters, and into the forest. Only when they arrived at the clearing where Whitby had Apparated earlier did he stop. "Same time next month?" 

"That should be fine," said Whitby. He was looking at the sky, transfixed. Draco looked up as well, but there was nothing of note. "It really is lovely out here," Whitby murmured. "I miss being able to see the stars. Astronomy was my favourite subject at Hogwarts, you know." 

Draco did not know. Nor did he care. "I barely remember any of it." 

"Oh? You don't have a favourite constellation, even?" 

He shrugged. "I can find the 'Draco' constellation, but that's it." 

"I've always liked Orion, myself." 

Draco crossed his arms, impatient. "That's very fascinating." 

Whitby finally turned his gaze away from the sky to look at him. "I hope you'll forgive my saying so, but for a dying man, you're really not doing much to make the most of your remaining time." 

"What does it matter to you?" Like he knew anything anyway. 

"You're my patient. We've been working together for four years." 

Draco frowned. "If you're implying that you care, then perhaps I should find a new Healer." 

Whitby actually had the gall to look apologetic. He gave a heavy sigh and said, "I'll send the next month's supply of potions tomorrow." 

Draco gave a curt nod and watched as he turned on the spot and vanished with a crack. He stared at the clearing for several minutes, then looked up at the sky. He tried to find Orion, even though he had no idea what he was supposed to look for. 

**** 

At the shop the next morning, Draco looked over the small selection of astronomy books and chose one to read while he sat at the counter. He became so engrossed in it that he completely lost track of the time until Potter's voice interrupted him. 

"Hullo." 

"Potter. Hi." His heart sank when he saw that Potter wore the same expression he'd had when sighting Draco with Whitby the evening before. 

"Good book?" 

Draco shrugged. "It's about constellations." 

Potter nodded and stood leaning against the counter for a long moment before saying, "Well, you know where I'll be." 

Draco watched him shuffle away to pour a cup of coffee and go to his nook. He wanted to say something, to call Potter back, but no words came to him. Merlin, why were things awkward again all of a sudden? Potter looked positively forlorn. Perhaps he'd expected Draco to come running up the street last night and invite him to an impromptu dinner. Like that would ever happen. 

Whatever the reason, when it came time to close that evening, Potter did not ask Draco what he felt like having for dinner. He did not linger to chat. He merely placed his carefully folded blanket on the counter and wished Draco a good evening with a half-hearted wave. 

Draco tried not to let it bother him. He had gotten rather used to having something to look forward to after the ordeal of taking his potions though, and he was, if anything, a man of routine. 

After three more days of the same increasingly awkward exchanges with Potter and no dinners together, Draco was forced to admit that it did bother him. 

The degree to which it irritated him was, in fact, quite alarming. He sat at the counter and stewed all day. And when Potter strode in mid-afternoon that Friday, Draco called him over with a sharp, "Potter." 

Potter still looked sad. It was almost pitiful, and Draco wondered if perhaps a good slap to the face would knock him back to normal. 

"What do you feel like having for dinner tonight?" Draco asked through gritted teeth. 

Potter perked up, surprised. "Oh - erm, how about fish and chips?" 

"Fine. Remember to pick it up later." 

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. Draco forced himself to focus on his book, but his mind and his eyes kept straying to the clock. As the time approached to close the shop, he launched out of his chair to make the rounds and gently remind his customers. 

They all said their goodbyes, dropping off blankets and grabbing their coats on the way out. Potter approached the counter, last as usual and looking pensive. Draco clasped his hands together underneath the counter to keep from trembling so much. "Fish and chips, Potter," he barked. 

"I know, I know." Potter rolled his eyes, but he smiled. 

Draco watched him put his jacket on and step outside. He watched until Potter had disappeared from view entirely before he made his way to the store room. He sat for a moment before lining up potion bottles and uncorking them. What was wrong with him? He frowned. It was foolish to be making attempts to salvage this friendship. Not when he'd let all others whither away into nothing. Potter wasn't special. 

Except Potter was special. He was easy to talk to, and he was a good storyteller, and Draco hadn't laughed with anyone like he had with Potter. He made Draco _feel_ special. 

And that made him feel so guilty. 

He took a deep breath, bracing himself, and downed each potion as quickly as possible. Pain and discomfort overtook him, but Draco welcomed the feelings for once. 

**** 

Potter had already returned and was in the rear corner nook as usual when Draco stumbled out of the store room and nearly collapsed into his chair. 

"What do you do in here while I'm gone?" Potter asked, handing a styrofoam container over. 

"Book-keeping." 

"What, like financial records and stuff?" 

"Sure." Why not? Let him think what he wanted. Draco stabbed into a piece of fish with his fork. 

Potter raised an eyebrow. "You need to do it everyday though? In a separate room?" 

"I like to stay on top of things," Draco said dismissively. "What's with the interrogation?" 

Potter chewed on a chip while he thought for a moment. "I think you're lying." 

Well, of course he was. "I'm not. And even if I was - which I'm _not_ \- it doesn't concern you." 

"Ok, fine." Potter nodded slowly. "New topic. Can I ask what you were doing in the village last Sunday?" 

"Sometimes I need to come into the shop." He frowned. "To check on things." 

"Who was that man with you?" 

Draco froze. "He's a - a friend." 

And there it was again all over Potter's face. That forlorn look. "You never mentioned him before." 

"I wasn't aware I was obligated to inform you of all my acquaintances." 

Potter stopped eating. He set his container on the table between them. 

Draco's heart was suddenly in his throat. He wanted to say meaner, nastier things to push Potter away. He wanted to apologise. He wanted to run. 

Potter clasped his hands together and looked Draco in the eye. "Look, I care about you. I mean, really care about you. I - I don't know if you've noticed..." 

If he'd noticed. 

Had Draco noticed? Perhaps, subconsciously, he had. Maybe that was why he'd felt so guilty. Potter wouldn't care about him if he knew he was dying. And Draco wouldn't blame him. 

Potter continued. "I guess maybe it doesn't matter though. I didn't know you were with someone." 

" _With_ someone?" What on earth was he talking about? 

"The man you were with on Sunday." 

_Oh_. "He's - he really is just a friend. I'm not with anyone right now." Or ever. 

Potter looked so relieved then. All the tension from the week seemed to drain out of him in three seconds. 

"Oh, well that's - that's great. I mean, we all need friends." 

"Yes." 

"And what about me?" 

Draco's heart squeezed painfully as he searched for the right words. But there were none. "You're my friend, too," he said slowly. 

"I want us to be more than that. I think you do, too." 

He wished Potter would stop looking at him like that. Like his heart was already crushed. "I can't," he said quietly. 

"Can't or won't?" Potter's face was twisted in confusion and pain. 

Draco closed his eyes as he thought for a moment. "There is no difference." It didn't matter if there was. 

Potter stared in disbelief. "Why not? Why not give things a chance? I mean, you already know I'm not here to out you to the Wizarding world, or terrorise you, or - or anything. I feel this connection to you that -" 

"Potter." Draco's heart pounded. "I can't do it." 

"Are you afraid of commitment? We can take things slow. I just -" 

"No. I'm not afraid." Well, he was. But only because he knew he would already fail. "I - just leave it. I can't be with you. I can't be with anyone." 

"Is this part of your punishment from the war, somehow?" 

"It's nothing like that." 

"Then why can't we -" 

" _No_." Draco winced, shutting his eyes against Potter's desperation. "I said no, okay? How many times do I need to say it?" 

In the silence that followed, he wished for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. When he opened his eyes, there was no gaping chasm. Only Potter. Always Potter. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Potter finally said, "Fine." His face had gone completely white, and his mouth trembled slightly. "I'll erm, I'll be going then," he said, standing. "Thanks for dinner. And I guess, good night." His eyes looked so dull, full of pain and betrayal, and Draco thought he'd never felt worse in his life. 

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered, but it was too late. Potter was gone. 

He stared at the empty chair across from him. At the half-full container of food on the table. At his own, still in his lap. The chips had gone limp, and the fish was shiny with oil. He closed the lid. 

And sat. 

They never should have started having dinner together in the first place. Potter had been getting too close. 

It was for the best. Draco kept telling himself that. He would believe it eventually. 

Probably. 

He sat for a long time. 


	5. Hope

Draco didn't ordinarily spend a lot of his time thinking about Potter. 

He crossed his mind every now and then. Whenever he made coffee in the shop. Afternoons, as the time approached for Potter to make his appearance. Evenings, as he wondered what they'd be eating later. Nights, when he had trouble falling asleep, and he wondered what time Potter went to bed. Occasionally on the weekends, when he wondered what Potter did on Sundays. Perhaps he visited with friends, or had them over for Sunday roast. 

It wasn't too often. 

But Potter occupied Draco's every waking thought the next day. 

It was Saturday. 

Sometimes Potter came into the shop a little earlier on Saturday. Draco tried to read his book, but it was a clear, brisk day, and the shop was uncharacteristically busy. His mouth went dry each time the door opened, and he gave a pained smile to everyone that walked in. 

As mid-afternoon approached, he began to fidget in his seat. Eventually, he gave up pretending to read and sat staring out the window, to see when Potter might come strolling up the street. 

But Potter didn't show. 

Draco wondered if this was it. If this was the end of the routine he and Potter had established. That he'd come to look forward to - and apparently Potter had, as well. There was no other bookshop for Potter to haunt though, so where could he be? 

Well. Anywhere else, really. 

People strolled up and down the street, smiling and laughing, holding hands, carrying their shopping. Scarves whipped in the wind. Everyone was out making the most of the day. Even the leaves had a charming lilt of careless joy as they drifted through the air to their final resting place. 

"Hey Malfoy, we need more coffee," said someone - Browning, it turned out. Draco wanted to kill him. 

He smiled, got up, and went to start a new pot. 

This was all he had left. 

**** 

By the time he closed the shop, Draco felt as though he'd drunk ten cups of coffee. He bade farewell to the last customers and made short work of locking the door and yanking all the curtains shut as soon as the shop was empty. He haphazardly cast his usual charms to restore order to the place. He barely even registered the discomfort and pain from taking his potions. Nothing could compare to the way he was feeling after his disastrous conversation with Potter the night before, it seemed. 

As he locked the door to the shop and began the walk home, Draco paused at the spot where he and Potter usually split ways. He knew where Potter lived, of course. He remembered the address from the land deed Potter had shoved at him nearly a lifetime ago. All for a blanket. All for this. 

A wild urge overtook him, beckoning him to go and visit Potter. It took everything in him not to. Nothing good could come of it. He needed to accept that Potter was out of his life and move on. Draco had made his peace with everyone else exiting his life. This was no different. 

Except it was. 

**** 

One of the perks of owning a bookshop was that Draco was in charge of inventory. After finishing his first book about constellations, he decided to expand the astronomy offerings in his shop and ordered several more. 

He sat at the counter day after day, slowly making his way through each book. He hadn't been so engrossed in a subject in quite a while. But it still wasn't enough to distract him completely from the fact that Potter had remained conspicuously absent from his shop for the last several weeks. 

All of Draco's other regulars made their daily or weekly appearances. A number of tourists paraded through, grateful to have somewhere quiet and warm to spend a cold and rainy afternoon. 

But never Potter. 

Some days, Draco would stare out the window, seething, willing Potter to show up. Others, he'd pretend to read and sat staring at the same page for the entire day. 

The emptiness left by Potter's absence was pervasive and all-consuming. Happy memories always lured Draco further into the abyss of loneliness. Memories of a not-too-distant past, ones where he and Potter had shared meals and spoken easily with each other. There were a few instances where they'd talked long into the night, and the sound of Potter's laughter always lingered in Draco's ears, lulling him to sleep when he got home. 

It was difficult now to believe that had once been a reality. 

_You miss him_ , his brain teased. 

Fine. So he missed Potter. He'd been a part of Draco's daily existence for a long time. It was hard to forget that so easily. Potter had become part of his routine, and now that routine had abruptly vanished. Missing that, missing Potter - it couldn't be helped. 

Still, it didn't seem fair that he should miss Potter so fiercely. They ate dinner together and talked - that was it. Sure, Potter was in the shop everyday, but he and Draco usually didn't see each other or speak until the shop had closed. Potter had always insisted on taking up space in the rear corner nook, which was as far away as possible from where Draco sat at the counter. 

_You care about him._

It was the last thing Draco needed. He had long ago severed any meaningful relationships. He had, in fact, cut ties with the entire Wizarding world, save for Whitby. It had been an ordeal, and he'd worked hard since then to always keep some distance between himself and those who knew him. 

Everyone except Potter. 

And look how that had turned out. Potter cared about him. Potter, who always seemed ready with a smile, who didn't hold back when Draco made him laugh. 

There was a persistent ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his medical problems. It seemed impossible for Draco to deny his feelings any longer. Not when they left him feeling like this. Like part of him was missing. Like he'd made a mistake. 

Like he cared. 

**** 

On the first day he opened the shop after the holidays, Draco turned the key to lock everything up that evening. It had been a decent day. A day without Potter, but otherwise decent. 

He hadn't given up hope on Potter coming back to haunt the bookshop. It kept him going. He'd spent the holidays thinking about what he would say when that day came. 

At the juncture in the road where he and Potter always separated to go their own ways, Draco paused. He did this often, even though Potter wasn't there with him to say good night. It was a hard habit to break. Potter had left an indelible mark on Draco's life. 

A maddening urge to see Potter overtook him. 

Christmas had been lonely. Draco had been alone for years, and he'd become quite accustomed to it. So this loneliness over the holidays was very unwelcome. He’d slept poorly and spent a lot of time thinking. He couldn't get Potter out of his head. The lack of sleep chipped away at him, and at some point, he began considering going to Potter's house. Just to see him. 

And ask whether he was still interested in being with Draco. 

A relationship. 

It was selfish, and Draco hated himself for it, for knowing the pain it would ultimately inflict. But it still tempted him, to have just that small glimmer of happiness. He spent a lot of time asking himself 'what if' questions, and the one he could never answer was what if he told Potter about his health problems? 

In all likelihood, it would drive him away. Draco decided he could live with that. Rejection would at least shut the door on possibility, and then he could forget about this and move on. In fact, that might be preferable. 

A gust of wind blew in the direction of Potter's house. Perhaps this was a sign. Perhaps he could just walk by. It would put his mind at ease to know that Potter was there, warm and safe. 

That seemed reasonable, he decided. He shoved his hands in his pockets and started on the path. 

Potter lived at Hillside Cottage, and as Draco approached, he saw that unlike his own house, Potter's was appropriately named. To his immense relief, he also saw that lights were on inside. And despite his original intent, he found that instead of walking right past it, his legs carried him up the small hill. 

Draco stepped onto the landing and knocked on the door, panicking. What was he doing here? It felt like an entire lifetime passed, but then, at last, the door opened and there stood Potter, silhouetted in the light. 

"Draco," he said. He looked surprised. He looked... well, he looked really good. 

"Potter," Draco croaked. 

Potter crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. "What are you doing here?" 

If only there were a simple answer to that. 

"I wanted to see if you were still around," Draco said lamely. "I haven't seen you in a while." 

"Oh." The tension went out of Potter's face. "Well, I'm around." 

"I was wondering about... Well, I wasn't sure whether something had happened to you." 

"I'm fine." Potter cocked his head. Draco shifted his feet. "You look cold." 

"Very astute, Potter." Draco rolled his eyes. He softened his voice and added, "Can I come inside?" 

Potter chewed on his lower lip for a minute. "Sure." He stood aside. 

It was just the reluctant welcome Draco had been looking for. 

He stepped into Potter's home and began taking off his shoes and jacket as he surreptitiously took in how the Chosen One lived. It was almost the complete opposite of Draco's home. Personal mementos and photographs covered every available surface. Rich colors, plush seating, rugs, and blankets occupied the rest. It looked warm. Lived-in. 

Draco walked over to a nearby table, taking in Potter's notebooks and various stacks of papers. "So you've been working here," he murmured. He ran his hand over the top of a chair. 

"Yeah." Potter ran a hand through his hair. "I figured that might be for the best." 

Draco nodded. "Were you planning to come back? To the shop. My shop, I mean." He was too nervous. Perhaps this was a mistake. 

"I... Well, I'm not sure. Maybe." 

Draco nodded. Potter wanted out, then. It _was_ a mistake to come here. 

Potter stepped into the room, leaning against a wall. "Erm, so why are you here?" 

"I don't really know," Draco said, because it was the truth. "I thought we should talk. About us." 

Potter crossed his arms. "I thought there was and could never be any 'us'." 

"I - no, there can't." Draco grappled for words, drumming his fingers on the chair back. "But I can't stop thinking about you," he blurted. That hadn't come out the way he'd intended. 

Potter stared for a minute, frozen. His eyes had gone wide, and he looked curious. Intrigued. Possessive. 

Heat crept up Draco's face as he watched Potter. In the next moment, he felt Potter's body crushed against his as arms held him tightly. His face pressed into Potter's neck, and he instinctively drew a deep breath. Potter smelled like some kind of old world soap, and the scent coaxed Draco's eyes to close and his arms to wrap around Potter just as tightly in return. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been embraced like this, if he ever had been. Surely it was okay to just let himself experience this, enjoy it. Just this once. 

The arms around him drifted up to gently grip his shoulders and pull him back a little. Draco placed his palms on Potter's chest and let his head loll back enough so that he was looking right into deep green eyes. He felt drunk. 

"I thought staying away might help," Potter said, "but I can't stop thinking about you either. I don't know who said you can't be with anyone, but I hope you know it's rubbish. We can take things as slow as you need." 

And that did Draco in. He had to tell Potter. He had to give him a way out. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting him. 

"It's not about going slow," Draco said. "We don't need to go slow." There probably wasn't enough time to go slow. 

He paused, thinking. How to even begin? The smile Potter gave him made him weak in the knees. 

"What is it then?" 

Draco took a deep breath. It was difficult, with Potter looking at him like that, straight into his soul. "Maybe - can we sit down somewhere?" 

Potter led them to a deep green sofa. He sat close to Draco, so that their thighs touched. 

"That man you saw me with that night," Draco began, "he's - he's not just a friend. Not really a friend, I guess. He's my," he paused to bite his lip, "Healer." 

Potter's brow furrowed. "Your - are you sick?" 

Real Auror material, this one. 

"Sort of. I was cursed." Draco laced his hands together. Squeezed. "It was over four years ago, in Diagon Alley. Just after my family's trial had ended. Are you familiar with the Septicemia Curse?" 

Potter shook his head. 

"It poisons the blood." Draco looked down and saw that Potter's hands were also clasped together. "It's irreversible." 

"What does that mean for you though?" Potter spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "I mean, aren't there potions that can help manage the effects of it?" 

Oh, yes. A veritable fucking rainbow of them. "There are. But the damage to my body is cumulative." He dared to look up. Potter's face looked drawn. He took a breath. "It's - I'm not -" 

"You're dying," whispered Potter. 

"Yes." 

Draco watched as Potter's mouth began trembling and his brow furrowed. He was quite certain Potter's heart just broke, and Draco pressed his lips together. He couldn't look away. 

It was a long time before either of them said anything. 

Potter's trembling subsided slightly. "How long?" He finally blinked, and tears rolled down his cheeks. 

"I don't know. I was given five years four-and-a-half years ago. That was before I started managing my symptoms though. It - it could be longer." He tried to look hopeful, even though he hadn’t actually felt that way in a long time.. 

"How _have_ you been doing lately then? Oh god, I should have asked that first," Potter moaned. He buried his face in his hands. 

Draco wanted nothing more than to take Potter in his arms. It was strange, how overwhelming the feeling was. He gripped his hands tightly. "I'm not doing great. But things haven't gotten any worse for months." Draco looked down at Potter, who looked to be in agony. "I don't know when anything will happen. Or even what, specifically. It's unpredictable. And I couldn’t bear the thought of putting anybody I cared about through that kind of pain." 

Potter collapsed back against the sofa. "That's why you cut everyone off." 

"Yes." 

"That's why you said you can't be with anyone." 

Draco sighed. "Yes." 

Another long silence filled the air. The fire crackled merrily. 

"What if I still want to be with you?" Potter finally asked. He sat up and took one of Draco's hands. 

"What? No, Potter -" Draco tried to pull his hand away. 

" _No_." Potter tightened his grip. "It's my decision." 

"Excuse you, but you're not the only person involved here." Potter had some nerve. Yet part of Draco had been hoping for this. A terrible, selfish part of him. 

"I think you want this," said Potter. He looked determined, almost angry. "I think you're just afraid to say you do." 

Draco bit the inside of his cheeks, but kept his mouth shut. Of course Potter was right. That didn't mean he was going to admit it. 

"What are you so afraid of?" 

"I'm on borrowed time," he spat. 

Potter gave a sad smile. "We all are. I could die tomorrow." He took a breath. "I thought I _was_ going to die, all throughout school. And then I knew I would. It was a rare bit of magic that I was able to come back." 

"So you know, then. You know what it's like." 

Potter loosened his grip on Draco's hand and began rubbing in the dips between his knuckles. "In a way, I guess, yeah. And I still think we should make the most of the time you have left." 

"I don't know if I can do that," Draco said. He watched Potter trace a finger over the bones in his hand. When had his skin become so waxy and translucent? "I'll just be thinking about how much I'm going to hurt you. You've already lost so many people." 

"Let me worry about that," Potter said softly. 

It was so tempting. Draco tore his eyes away from their hands and looked into Potter's face. He looked so earnest, so full of hope and longing. He'd never looked as attractive as he did in that moment. Desperation looked good on him. Draco felt his resolve fading away. His heart pounded. 

Potter smiled. "C'mon, you already admitted you can't stop thinking about me." 

Draco managed a weak smile in return. He needed time. He needed to think about this when he wasn't drunk off the feeling of Potter's hands on his. "Let me think about it." 

Potter nodded. "Take all the time you need." 

"I don't really have that luxury." He winced at the look on Potter's face. "Sorry. I - erm. Just give me a week." 

"Of course," said Potter. His smile had faded, but he still looked earnest. Hopeful. 

For a moment, Draco remembered what that felt like, to have hope. 

And how much it hurt to lose. 


	6. Show Me

Harry watched Draco leave, then closed the door. He stood facing it for quite some time. 

He forced his legs to move to the sofa, sitting down in the space Draco had just recently occupied as he told Harry exactly what he'd wanted to hear, and exactly what he hadn't. 

He was not okay. 

Harry slouched back into the sofa and reached with both hands to touch his face. He felt so numb. Was that normal? He stared at the fire and shivered. Maybe he should have asked Draco to stay. He could really use a hug right now. 

And he had to laugh then. Draco was the one dying, and _Harry_ needed comforting? God, how selfish and needy could he be? He laughed at the absurdity. Tears began running down his face, and his laughs became sobs. He collapsed onto his side. What a mess he was. A disaster. It was better that Draco had left, that he didn't see him like this. If he could see how much pain Harry was in already, there was no chance he'd choose to be in any sort of relationship. Not when he'd constructed his entire life around trying to avoid hurting anyone. 

_But I can't stop thinking about you_. 

Harry wished the numbness would return. Experiencing an entire spectrum of feelings all at once hurt too much. One second, his spirits were lifted to great heights at the joy from knowing Draco cared for him, at the prospect of getting to be with him and touch and kiss him. The next, he felt crushed already under suffocating agony. And then he felt angry, because all of this seemed a bit early, a bit pre-emptive and presumptuous besides. 

He just wanted to explode. 

He curled in on himself instead, closed his eyes, and gave in to everything. There was nothing else for it. Eventually, he knew, he would pass out. 

And just then, oblivion looked pretty damn good to him. 

**** 

The sound of knocking brought Harry awake the next morning. 

He opened his eyes, crusty and swollen from last night's pity party. His temple hurt where his glasses had pressed into his face as he slept. He groaned and pushed himself up. It was bloody cold. And no wonder - the fire had gone out. 

The knocking became insistent. 

"Fuck, I'm coming, I'm coming," he mumbled, and swung his legs off the end of the sofa, stretching. He made his way to the door, attempted to smooth his hair, and flung it open. 

Mrs. Wilder gave him one look and scowled. "Aren't you a sight for old eyes." 

Harry blinked. Hell - in all the mess of last night, he'd completely forgotten. "Erm, sorry about that," he said. He tried to smile, but his face hurt. 

"Well, budge over. I'll not let you keep me from my coffee." 

Nine o'clock, Sunday mornings. They'd been having breakfast together for so long by then, Harry couldn't believe it had slipped his mind. He let her in and shut the door against the cold, grey morning. 

Mrs. Wilder halted just past the entryway, in the middle of taking off her coat. "What's gone on here? Everything's a mess." She sniffed the air. "And I don't smell any coffee." 

"Erm, yeah. I slept late. I'll just get the fire started, and -" 

"Let's get the coffee started first," she said, hanging her coat on a hook. 

While the coffee brewed, Harry started a fire and shoved his papers and notebooks on the dining table to the side. On the table, he set out some milk, toast, butter, and jam. Mrs. Wilder sat on the sofa and pulled out a magazine from her handbag. When he placed a carafe full of hot coffee on the table, she looked up and smiled. 

"Now that's more like it." She made her way over and sat across from Harry. 

He always let her have the first cup of coffee, and he had to smile as he watched her relax into her chair with the first sip. She liked to point out that she'd been having a cup of coffee at nine o'clock every morning for the last 60 years. 

"I'll never understand why you don't just make your own coffee," he said, buttering a slice of toast. 

"It never comes out right. Besides, you've got the good stuff. You and Draco." 

Harry dropped the butter knife. 

"Oh, did something finally happen between you two?" She picked the knife up from the table and scooped up a dab of butter for her own toast, smirking at him over the top of her glasses. 

"Well, not exactly." 

"I saw him skulking up the road yesterday evening." She took another sip of her coffee and said, "I knew he wasn't coming to see me." 

Harry blushed. It really was difficult to maintain a private life in a tiny village. "We talked." He took a large bite of his toast. 

"And? I'm 83, I don't have all the time in the world, you know." 

_Just like Draco_. 

Harry's face fell. He could feel his chin trembling. He blinked back hot tears and choked on his toast. 

Mrs. Wilder set down her cup with a loud clatter. "Surely he didn't reject you. How could he?" 

"I -" He had to take a deep breath before continuing. "No. He didn't reject me. He - he needs time. To think." 

"Well, doesn't that just figure," Mrs. Wilder said, shaking her head. "That boy holds everyone at arm's length. Even when romance comes smacking him in the face, he won't just accept it." 

Harry fought a wild urge to laugh. Or cry. It was hard to tell the difference. He ran a hand through his hair. 

"Well, how much time does he need?" she asked. 

"A week." And what a long week that promised to be. 

She grunted in acknowledgement. "You'll know soon enough, at least." Harry watched her pick up another piece of toast. "What have you got planned for today then?" 

He shook his head. "I'm not really sure." He hadn't really thought about it. 

"You're welcome to come to my house to help clean." She waved her toast at him. "You can't mope around all day." 

Ordinarily, he Flooed to visit Hermione and Ron for Sunday roast. He wasn't sure about that today, though. He just felt like being alone and wallowing. He was allowed to do that. 

He forced a small smile, picking up his lukewarm cup of coffee. "I won't. I promise." 

**** 

The next morning, Harry woke up to snow falling outside his window. He lay in bed a few extra minutes, wiggling his toes and burrowing deeper under his thick quilt. He loved watching the snow fall. Everything seemed imbued with a quiet peace. It usually helped to calm his own mind when there was too much clanging around inside. 

No amount of time spent staring out the window seemed to help that morning, however. 

With a heavy sigh, Harry pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed. His joints felt stiff, as though he'd aged 40 years overnight. He'd decided against visiting Hermione and Ron after all. The sofa called to him after Mrs. Wilder left, and he lay in various uncomfortable configurations all day while staring at the fire and blinking out tears. He'd completely forgotten to eat until he finally stood to move to his bed that evening and saw the breakfast dishes were still out. 

He refused to wallow any longer though. 

Not today. 

It was a new week, and he decided to start it off with a fresh pot of coffee. He splayed his notebooks and papers out on the dining table again to work while he sat there, sipping. He pulled a yellowed photo album towards him and began leafing through it for about the thousandth time. Mrs. Wilder had given it to him shortly after he'd moved in. It was a welcome gift, or as she called it, a "welcome back" gift, since the cottage had belonged to his grandparents. She'd known them. Going by the photos, she'd known them quite well. Harry loved looking at them, at how his grandfather had knobbly knees just like his, and his grandmother had a nose that wrinkled when she laughed, exactly like his. 

He traced a finger around the edge of the album, then looked up at the clock and felt his heart clench. It was after noon already. Almost time for him to head to the bookshop. 

Even though it had been months since he'd last set foot inside, Harry still felt compelled to visit everyday, still felt a pang of sadness when he realised he couldn't, that it hurt too much. 

But things had changed, hadn't they? 

Yes. He decided they had. He'd just take his journal and head over and hurry into the little nook in the back where he always sat. 

Harry leapt out of his chair and dashed to the bedroom, throwing on his least wrinkled pair of trousers and a red jumper hanging off the edge of his bed. He jammed his feet into his shoes and threw on his coat. Outside, it was still snowing, and Harry revelled in the quiet solitude while he speed-walked down the path. 

As he turned onto the main street, Draco's shop came into view, and sudden doubt brought Harry to a halt. Maybe Draco didn't want him in his shop. He'd said he needed time away from Harry, after all. 

_But I can't stop thinking about you_. 

Harry swallowed. He wondered if that was still true, if Draco still couldn't stop thinking about him, now that they had talked, now that everything had been laid out on the table. He began taking slow steps to avoid looking like a complete lunatic standing out there in the snow. Maybe it wouldn't matter. He only ever sat in that nook in the back anyhow. Surely that wouldn't be a bother? 

He paused in front of the shop window. 

Draco was sitting behind the counter as usual, only he wasn't engrossed in a book. He was looking out the window, right at Harry. 

They stared at each other. Harry couldn't make out his expression. Draco was always so bloody impossible to read. He felt his own eyes go wide, and his cheeks heated when someone bumped into him on accident. 

_Quick, you idiot. Do something. Anything_. 

He turned around, hoping desperately that he didn't look like he was fleeing. His eyes caught sight of a sign outside the market advertising a sale on chicken, and he darted inside. 

He'd have chicken that evening, he decided. 

**** 

On Tuesday, Harry awoke feeling bold. 

And a bit desperate, if he was being honest with himself. Seeing Draco the day before had fuelled a rush of desire that was impossible to ignore. Harry had to see him. 

He cast a spell to smooth out the wrinkles in his trousers and put on his red jumper again. He even made sure to wear matching socks. 

And he stepped confidently down the path, through the falling snow and all the way to the bookshop. At the door, he didn't even pause - just took a deep breath and went in. 

Draco was helping a customer at the counter. 

Harry exhaled. With shaky hands, he hung his coat. He walked slowly past Draco, whose eyes roved over him. Harry suppressed a shiver and gave a quick nod as he spilled coffee into a cup and retreated to his reading nook. Or, what was quite possibly _formerly_ his reading nook. Who knew what had happened over the last few months. 

But everything was still the same. Nobody was there, and Harry sank blissfully into his favourite armchair closest to the fireplace. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a minute. It was good to be back. It was like coming home after a long day. The smell of books and coffee and the fire eased into his lungs, comforting him in a way that he hadn't realised he'd missed so fervently. 

Outside, snow continued to fall. Harry decided to just sit back and enjoy the show while he sipped his coffee. It was beautiful here. Quiet, relaxing, cozy. He wondered if Draco's home was similarly warm and inviting, and the thought of that, of being in Draco's home, made his heart race. 

Maybe he didn't need any more coffee. He set his cup on the table in front of him, then pulled out his journal, his pen, and set to writing. 

It had been a suggestion of Hermione's, that he start writing. They were all affected by the war, and in the immediate aftermath they all handled it in different ways. Harry had taken to staying in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness for days, avoiding everyone and everything. He was a "hero", but he couldn't bring himself to face anyone. Not even his friends. He could hardly face himself. 

For better or for worse, his depression had left him a bit lax when it came to security measures, and Hermione and Ron eventually found him in 12 Grimmauld Place. 

And they stayed. 

For a year, they stayed with Harry. They coaxed him out of bed and downstairs each day to eat, to shower, to sit with them while they just talked and carried on like normal. Eventually, he began to regain his strength and made half-hearted contributions to their conversations, remembering how to smile again occasionally. They never questioned him, never laughed when he sometimes left abruptly to lock himself in his bedroom. They never pushed him to do or be anything more than he was comfortable with. They were just there for him, a comforting presence, a reminder of normalcy, an anchor to reality, and eventually, Harry began to feel better. 

That was when Hermione had given him his first journal. She said writing had been immensely helpful for her, and it was a common suggestion from Muggle therapists to help work through all manner of mental distress. Harry gave her a tight smile as she held it out to him. It was a nice journal. Too nice, really. Thick, white pages were encased in smooth black leather. It smelled wonderful. He didn't think staining this precious book with his anguished rambling would really do anything, but he didn't want to hurt her feelings. So he took it. 

Of course, Hermione had been right. Writing did help Harry. He wrote everyday. Sometimes just a line or two. Sometimes he filled pages. But he couldn't imagine life without his journal now, and it was just as much a part of him as his glasses. 

Harry had apparently gotten completely immersed in writing then, because when he felt a tap on his shoulder, he gave a startled yelp. His pen clattered to the floor. 

"I'm closing the shop," Draco said in a soft voice. He looked like he wanted to say more. 

Harry stared. Draco was wearing the dark blue jumper - Harry's favourite - the one that made his skin look great and his eyes shine nearly silver. 

Draco cleared his throat. "Did you hear me?" 

Harry shut his mouth. "Mmhmm." 

Draco raised an eyebrow at him and backed away. 

Merlin, Harry was such an _idiot_. He searched the floor until he found his pen, then gathered his journal and took a slow, windy way through the shelves towards the front. Last as always. It was almost as though he'd never stopped coming here. 

Draco raised his chin when Harry approached. "Potter." 

"Draco." As he leaned his arms on the counter, he realised he had nothing to say. Not that it mattered. His mouth had gone completely dry. Up close, the delicate cable knit of Draco's jumper caught his eye. 

Draco picked up the stack of blankets from the counter and placed them underneath. "You forgot your blanket today." 

"Hmm? Oh, yeah." Harry furrowed his brow and smiled. "I didn't know whether it was okay to come here. I know you need time. I just -" 

"It's fine," Draco said. "Of course you can come here." His cheeks went slightly pink, and he added quietly, "I'm glad you did." 

Harry thought his heart might beat right out of his chest. "So, what about dinner?" He couldn't keep from smiling. 

Draco's mouth quirked to one side, and he thought for a long moment. 

"It's all right," Harry said. "We can get dinner another day. Do you at least want help cleaning up?" 

Draco gave an affected shrug. "Sure." 

It wasn't a lot of work. Really, it only took a few minutes, but for Harry, that was a few more minutes he got to spend with Draco. They met in the back of the shop after drawing all the curtains closed. Harry knew he should say goodnight and leave, but his feet seemed unwilling to move. He craved something more and just couldn't leave like this. His whole body was fraught with tension as he stood there, transfixed by the contrast between Draco's skin and his jumper. Transfixed by the grey eyes that watched him. 

"Do you think - I mean, I've really missed you," Harry blurted. It occurred to him that it had only been two fucking days since he'd seen Draco, and felt silly. "Do you think I could just have a hug?" The whole thing made him feel like he was 12 years old again. 

Draco blinked a few times. Crossed his arms. Pursed his mouth. "All right. Yeah." 

Harry barely waited for Draco to unfold his arms before taking one long stride over to envelop him. He turned his face into Draco's hair and inhaled, and a faint scent of peaches flooded his senses. It was so subtle, and Harry felt inordinately delighted that nobody else would know what sort of shampoo Draco used unless they were _this_ close to him. 

Another deep breath sent a jolt of desire straight to Harry's groin, and he pulled Draco closer, letting a hand drift down his back. He nearly gasped in surprise when he felt Draco's hands begin to trace a similar path down his own back, stopping just below the waistband of his jumper. Like he was considering. 

The air seemed to crackle with possibility, and Harry felt so light-headed, wishing desperately that Draco would just _do_ it, push his hands up under the fabric and touch him. There was no doubt he was interested - he could feel Draco's erection pressed against his thigh, just as Draco could probably feel Harry's. What was he waiting for? Surely he didn't need to think about _this_. 

Harry pressed his mouth against Draco's neck and shifted, aligning their cocks before rolling their hips together. Draco let out a soft moan, and Harry felt his knees go weak. He moved, pressing Draco back against a bookcase. With one hand gripping a shelf and the other on one of Draco's hips, Harry closed his eyes and began a slow, steady grind. Draco's hands _did_ climb up underneath the fabric of his jumper then. _About bloody time_. His cold fingers pressed into Harry's back, urging him to thrust harder, groaning when he did. 

Just when he’d decided to kiss Draco, the hands on his back swiftly dropped down to his hips and held him steady. 

"Stop," Draco said, and took a deep breath. 

"What?" Harry said, slightly dizzy, and he stilled himself. "What's wrong?" 

"I can't do this," Draco panted. "I need to think, not fuck." 

Harry's mind reeled. He could only stare, as the sight of a hot and bothered Draco sapped his brain of any coherent thought. It seemed to him that Draco could very much do with getting fucked just then. His cock strained against his trousers, still pressed against Harry's. It took everything in him to keep his hips still, because he so badly wanted to see Draco come undone, and this happy lapse in judgement might be his only chance. 

"That's - yeah, I understand," Harry said, breathless and not understanding anything in that moment except a burning desire to rip all of Draco's clothes off and fuck him right there against the books. He pulled away, ran a hand down the sleeve of Draco's jumper. "You know, that really is a nice jumper. It makes you look, well..." Fuckable. Very fuckable. "It really makes your skin look nice." 

Draco gave a confused smile, like he was trying to swallow a snide comment. "Thanks." 

"Right," Harry said. Now that the moment had passed and he had regained control of his faculties, he let go of Draco. "Well, I guess you'll see me again tomorrow then." Hopefully, Draco understood that if he wanted to pick up where they'd left off, Harry certainly wouldn't complain. 

Draco's face went blank as he said, "Goodnight, Potter." 

A freezing wind hit Harry when he stepped outside. He was grateful for it. It quelled the desire still coursing through him as he walked back to his cottage in a daze. 

**** 

The rest of the week dragged. 

It was agony. 

Harry wavered sharply between despondency and almost painful desire. He did some thinking of his own, trying to convince himself that Draco had a point, that it would hurt too much to be with him. He had lost so many other people in his life already - too many - and he well remembered the grief from each loss. 

Yet every afternoon when he went to the bookshop, Harry found his resolve wearing thin when Draco greeted him with a smile. And when evening came around and they bid farewell with a lengthy, albeit chaste hug, the faint smell of peaches always helped to chase away any remaining concerns Harry might have had. 

When Saturday finally arrived, Harry woke up early. His entire body tingled in anticipation. This was it. Today was the day. Draco had to have made up his fucking mind by now. 

He had no idea what to wear. His wardrobe seemed to mock him as he stood there, gaping for several minutes before giving up with a hopeless sigh. He never cared about this kind of stuff. Besides, Draco had already made whatever decision he was going to. What Harry wore wouldn't change that. 

Nonetheless, he cast spells to smooth out the wrinkles in his clothes. Just in case. 

Mrs. Wilder had left a card in his letterbox. It had a sleeping cat on the front and said _Good luck with Draco! (Don't forget about breakfast tomorrow!)_ on the inside. Shaking his head, Harry tucked the card into his journal and spent the morning working on his book about his grandparents. Several people in the village had given him old cards, letters, and photos when he'd asked. Sometimes he liked to just sit and go through them all, to relive all their old memories. That soothed him more than anything, especially on days when he really felt he didn't have a grip on himself. 

Harry worked until his hand cramped, then put down his pen and stretched. His eyes darted to the clock, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw how late it had gotten. 

He didn't think time was capable of passing quickly that day, but it was already mid-afternoon. 

He pushed back from the table and quickly put on his shoes, coat, and scarf. With one last look around, he shut the door to his cottage and began what felt like a fateful journey down the path. 

As soon as the bookshop came into view, Harry locked his gaze on it and didn't blink. His breath hitched as soon as he realised Draco was staring out the window. He must have been following Harry all the way up the street. The thought made him giddy. 

Draco continued to stare as Harry entered the shop, hung his coat and scarf, and walked over to the counter. 

"You're going to make me wait until you close the shop, aren't you?" Harry said. 

Draco gave a smug smile. He looked irresistible in that damn jumper again. "Of course. This is a place of business, Potter. I have to think of my customers." 

"And what about me? I'm a customer." 

Draco rolled his eyes. "You never buy anything. You just drink my coffee and take my blankets." 

"Speaking of," said Harry, "Hand one over. I nearly froze my arse off on the way over here." 

**** 

Evening finally arrived, and Harry helped Draco close the shop. He waited while Draco disappeared into the store room. Who knew what he did in there, but he emerged looking rather worse for the wear, like he'd been through some catastrophic weather event. Harry frowned but didn't say anything, and they walked back to Harry's cottage. It was a clear night out. It was probably cold as well, but Harry was so lost in thought he hardly registered it. Beside him, Draco was bundled up from head to toe, and neither said much the entire walk back. 

Harry was so nervous he almost dropped his keys as he made to unlock the door to his cottage. It was something of a relief to see that Draco seemed nearly as nervous. At least, Harry had never seen his face so pale and pinched. 

"Something to drink?" Harry offered when they'd removed their shoes and hung their coats and scarves. 

Draco jerked his head. "Let's just go sit." 

Each step towards the sofa felt heavy with anticipation. Draco sat down stiffly next to Harry. There was plenty of space between them, and he had to wonder if that was a bad sign. 

Draco turned to face him, resting his hands on his knees. He wore a heavy expression, and Harry felt himself flinch internally. 

"I'm not accustomed to doing this," Draco said. "Sorry if it's awkward." 

"It's all right." Harry wanted to ask what he meant by 'this'. Rejecting people? Crushing their hearts? 

Draco's mouth hung half-open as though he were trying to force words out. He shook his head lightly. "I can't believe this is so difficult." He looked up at the ceiling. 

"It's all right," Harry said again, quietly. He laced his fingers together in his lap. "Maybe we can talk about something else first." 

"Ok." Draco sat back on the sofa and shifted his gaze to look at Harry. "I'm all out of ideas though." 

Harry scooted a bit closer. "I've got one. What do you do everyday in your store room?" 

Draco pursed his lips and crossed one leg over the other. 

"You're not _really_ doing book-keeping, are you?" 

Draco averted his eyes. "No, of course not." 

"Then what are you doing in there?" 

"I take my potions." 

Harry frowned. "What? Why?" 

Draco glared at him. "How soon you forget that I've been cursed and -" 

"No!" Harry said quickly. He couldn't hear Draco say those horrible words again. "I mean why do you take your potions there? Why not at home?" 

Silence followed. Harry feared Draco wouldn't answer, that maybe their conversation was over before it had even really begun. Finally though, Draco exhaled and said, "It's stupid, but I don't want to associate anything in my home with this curse. Or with anything from my old life, really. I came here to get away from everything. As much as I could anyway." 

"You mean you don't even use magic?" 

Draco rolled his eyes. "Potter, how many times have you helped me close the shop? We always use magic." 

"Oh yeah." Harry felt like an idiot. He watched Draco trace a finger in figure eights on the arm of the sofa, and a sharp pang of sadness reverberated in Harry's chest. He felt sorry for Draco. He wanted to reach out and wrap his arms around him. The silence was almost unbearable. He clutched his hands together tighter to keep from doing something stupid. 

Draco was still watching him, but he wore a curious expression, and his finger had paused in tracing the figure eight pattern. "Potter," he said quietly, "I still don't know." 

Harry blinked a few times, wondering if he'd missed something. "Don't know what?" 

"I mean I don't _know_ , Potter! About _us_!" 

It was the first time Harry had ever seen him look so vulnerable, and his breath hitched in spite of himself. 

Draco took several deep breaths before continuing. "One minute, I've convinced myself we should go our separate ways. The next, I just want you to pin me to the floor and take me, like you were about to do a few days ago." 

Harry's mind reeled. "What?" he breathed. Was this actually happening? 

"God, Potter, I just said 'take me now'. What more do you want?" 

Harry had trouble processing... anything. Words, thoughts, feelings. Nothing seemed real. He looked up and saw Draco's exasperated expression. It looked like he was trying to decide between slapping Harry or pouncing on him. 

Tentatively, Harry moved a little closer, made to reach vaguely towards Draco with a hand. In the next moment, all he knew was the feeling of being pushed down onto the sofa and a body laying on top of his. Draco's face was inches above his own, and he scrutinised Harry with a look that made him shiver. He thought he might die from anticipation - it seemed very possible just then - and so he carded a hand through Draco's hair and pulled his head down until their lips pressed together. 

Whatever reservations Draco had been grappling with, he seemed to have abandoned them then. Harry closed his eyes and let himself feel. A tongue ran along his bottom lip, coaxing his mouth open with a groan. He did his best to respond in kind, curious and desperate to familiarise himself with the way Draco tasted. It was all so much better than he had imagined, and he wrapped his arms around Draco to hold him closer, lightly massaging his neck with one hand. He'd hardly dared hope that things would actually turn out like _this_. 

Draco pulled away, gasping for breath. Harry became painfully aware of his own erection when he felt Draco shift, and stifled a moan. He drew his hands down Draco's back, taking in the shape of him, and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers. "So, when you said 'take me now', how far did you mean?" Just for good measure, he canted his hips, grinning when Draco's eyelids fluttered. 

"I have no idea. I haven't been with anyone since before the war, actually." 

Harry stared at him incredulously. 

"Don't look at me like that. I have hands, you know. They've served me perfectly well." 

Harry kissed his ear and whispered, "Show me." 

He grinned when he felt Draco shiver, and watched him scramble off the sofa, never taking his eyes away from Harry's. His hands trembled as he undid his trousers and let them fall around his ankles. One hand rubbed the bulge of his pants, and Harry felt his mouth go dry, felt his hands reaching down to undo his own trousers and move them out of the way. He tore his jumper off and threw it on the floor, determined not to miss a moment of this erotic display. 

Draco made to take his jumper off as well when Harry said, "Wait, what are you doing?" 

"I'm stripping, Potter. What does it look like?" 

"Leave it. Leave your jumper on." 

Draco frowned, but then his mouth curled into a smirk. "I didn't know how much you liked it." He ran a hand down his chest. 

"You fucking liar. You knew exactly what you were doing when you put that on this morning," Harry said. "Now get back here." He shoved his pants down and palmed his erection. 

Draco watched, transfixed, then hastily took his own pants off and climbed back on top of Harry, straddling his thighs. 

Harry's eyes went straight to his cock, which jutted into the air just above his own, then trailed his gaze up the length of Draco's torso, finally settling on his face. He reached his hand out. 

Draco bit his lip and swatted Harry's hand away. "I'm supposed to show you, remember?" He took his cock into his hand and began hypnotising Harry with slow, lazy pulls, squeezing just slightly at the head. Harry lay back, admiring the show, but he also wanted to lick the pink head poking out of Draco's foreskin, or kiss the dusky nipples on his flushed chest. He was certain he'd go mad with desire just watching. His hand began inching its way towards his own untouched erection, but Draco brushed him away again. Just as Harry was about to complain, Draco extended his fingers to take Harry's cock in hand as well. The hot press of their erections together made Harry lose all coherent thought. When Draco gave a light squeeze, he groaned and shut his eyes. 

"I don't think so, Potter," Draco panted. He began sliding his hand up and down both their cocks, a delicious friction already building. "Eyes open. And don't you dare come on my jumper." 

Harry opened his eyes. His mind went back to the bookshop, when he'd pinned Draco against the shelves, wishing he could see Draco come undone. Well, Harry certainly was now. He didn't think he'd ever seen a more beautiful image than the one before him. Draco's face was a mixture of concentration and lust. Fine blond hair stood out in various directions, illuminated by the fire light. 

Some kind of possessive feeling tore through Harry as he thought about how long it had been since Draco had been intimate with anyone, and that he had chosen _Harry_. Fuck. He placed his hands on Draco's thighs, digging his fingers in. If only Draco would use a little more pressure, or move his hand just a bit faster. Harry thought he was going to die if he didn't come soon, and he shifted his hips a little underneath Draco, trying to thrust. It was impossible to tell which of them couldn't seem to stop moaning, not that it really mattered. He was so close. If only Draco would speed up just a little - 

"God, oh god - I'm going to come," Draco cried, and the first spray of come to land on Harry's chest pushed him over the edge as well. _Don't come on Draco's jumper. He'll kill you_. He held onto Draco's legs for dear life, felt his toes curl while his entire soul splashed across his chest. His vision went white for a moment, and Harry was glad he was laying down. 

It seemed to last forever, and it took a moment for Harry to regain his senses. He saw Draco watching him, catching his breath. "Well that was -" 

"Intense," Harry finished. There was a lot of come on his stomach and chest, and he couldn't help smiling. He liked it. "Come here," he said, pulling Draco to him. 

"I'm going to kill you for that," Draco said. "I said no come on my jumper." But he kissed Harry anyway. 

"Sorry," Harry said, even though he wasn't very sorry at all. In fact, it felt like he was marking Draco as his own, and he rather liked that idea. "That's why there are cleaning spells." 

"Yes, but I've never tried them on cashmere, and -" 

Harry shut him up with a kiss. "Stay with me tonight," he whispered against Draco's lips. 

Draco raised his head. He looked at Harry and ran a finger along the side of his face while he thought. Harry felt he could look into those shining grey eyes forever. 

After a long moment, he nodded. "All right, Potter." 

Harry smiled. "I think you can call me 'Harry' now." And he pulled Draco into another kiss. 


	7. Harry

"Potter, wake up." 

Harry groaned. 

"Come on, get up. Someone's knocking." A pause. "Potter!" 

"Harry," he corrected. He rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses, then caught sight of the clock. 

Nine o'clock. 

"Damn," he said. 

The knocking grew insistent. 

"Who the hell comes knocking this early on a Sunday?" Draco murmured. He pulled the quilt over his head. 

Harry couldn't help the smile that crept up his face. "Mrs. Wilder." 

"Mrs. - _What_?" Draco yanked the quilt down. "What's she doing here?" he whispered. 

"We have breakfast every Sunday," Harry said, sitting up. "She's my neighbour." 

"Your _neighbour_?" 

"Yes." Harry looked down at Draco. He was naked underneath the quilt - they both were. Another day, he would have pinned Draco down and done unspeakable things to him. He pushed himself off the bed and pulled on the clothes that lay nearest on the floor. "You can join us, you know." 

Draco shook his head and got out of bed as well. "I need to go home. Where are my clothes?" 

"I think they're still out by the sofa." Harry grinned at the memory of last night. "Hurry up, I need to let her in," he called, and followed Draco out, eyes on his arse. 

"Fantastic. You know, I didn't want everyone finding out about us like this." 

"It's not everyone, just her." 

Draco frowned as he stepped into his pants and trousers. "Potter, please. Everyone talks in these small villages." 

Harry couldn't help laughing. "Who cares? We're adults." 

"Except I value my privacy." Draco yanked his jumper over his head and began putting his socks and shoes on. 

"Then why did you move here?" 

"Shut up." 

"Well, so what?" said Harry. He picked up his own clothes from last night and threw them into the bedroom. "Just Floo home." He waved his hand at the fireplace. 

"Can't. My house isn't connected." 

"Then Apparate." He started making his way to the door. Mrs. Wilder was going to kill him. 

"Can't," Draco said quietly. 

Harry looked back at him and frowned. "Yes you can." 

"Not any longer." Draco crossed his arms and averted his eyes. "My Healer said I can't." 

The silence that stood between them was interrupted by more loud knocking. 

"I'd better go," said Draco. He wound his scarf around his neck and grabbed his coat. 

Harry gave him a look that said _We'll talk about this later_ and opened the door. A thousand questions had sprung up in his head, and it was difficult to smile at Mrs. Wilder just then. Predictably, she was irate. 

"Well, it's about -" she paused when Draco stepped into view. A satisfied smirk spread across her lips. "I see. Good morning indeed." 

With more dignity than Harry thought possible, Draco said, "I'll see you tomorrow." And he left, taking quick, long strides down the path until he disappeared from view. 

Mrs. Wilder turned back to face Harry. "I want every detail." 

**** 

As January slipped into February, the snow turned into a slow, relentless rain. It made for muddy grounds and uncomfortable treks through the village. 

It also made for cosy evenings, wrapped up in blankets and limbs as Harry and Draco discovered each other's bodies. 

Harry was quite certain he had never experienced anything as deeply and as wholly as this. He spent hours in Draco's arms, lost to his senses and all concept of time as they made love on nearly every surface of his home night after night. He wasn't ordinarily a morning person, but since Draco had begun spending the night, Harry had woken up first every day. Draco was always burrowed against him, head tucked under Harry's chin, legs tangled together. His slow, heavy breaths against Harry's chest were a peaceful break in the silence. These drowsy, pre-dawn moments sometimes felt more intimate than the ones where Harry had Draco pinned to the bed, buried deep inside of him. 

When Draco did wake up, Harry always kissed his forehead and mussed his hair - the only time he really allowed for it. After a few more minutes, Draco rolled onto his back and stretched, and it was time to begin the day. Harry got dressed and went to fix breakfast for them while Draco showered. Coffee and orange juice, toast and cereal. He remembered now. It had startled him when Draco first said he couldn't have coffee or tea - or any caffeine, really - because of his heart. Harry clenched his jaw and said that it wasn't a problem. 

And it wasn't. It was just a small, sharp reminder that this was all just a dream. 

They spoke of Draco's health only sparingly. Harry knew Draco would answer any of his questions. The problem was that Harry was too afraid to hear the answers. It had been enough when, after their first night together, Draco had explained the next evening how his body was in no fit condition to Floo or Apparate any longer, nor had it been for over a year. Harry, feeling a little selfish as he clutched Draco's hands, asked if he was still fit enough to have sex. When Draco said yes, that had been the end of the conversation, and their clothes. 

Sundays, they spent most of the day apart. Draco never joined Harry and Mrs. Wilder for breakfast. Then in the afternoon, Harry paid his customary weekly visit to Hermione and Ron. He always invited Draco to come along, knowing his friends would keep silent. They already were. But Draco shook his head and explained he had to visit with his Healer. 

"I thought it was monthly," Harry said. He distinctly remembered Draco had visited with his Healer just a week or so ago. 

"It was." 

_Oh_. 

Harry nodded tersely. It was fine. 

It was. 

**** 

After an especially dreary spell of rain, spring graced the Lake District early that year. Flowers weren't shy about pushing up from the ground after the harsh winter, and it didn't take long before they saturated the paths and fields with a spectacular array of colour. 

Harry watched Draco pull out his keys to lock the bookshop. The air was lush with the smell of sunshine and greenery. It was an especially nice evening, but he was looking rather worn out lately. His Healer had made some adjustments to his potions, and they weren't sitting terribly well with him. Draco had assured Harry there was always an adjustment period and not to worry. 

But of course, Harry worried. He reached out to smooth Draco's hair, then pulled him into a kiss. It was a surprise to Harry, how close he and Draco had become. Rather, that it was possible to become so close to anybody. Sometimes he forgot how long they'd known each other. 

Time passed too quickly. 

"What was that for?" Draco asked, slightly breathless. He tucked his keys into his pocket and started them off down the path. 

Harry shrugged. "Just felt like it," he said, and a sudden thought occurred to him as they were about to turn towards his cottage. 

"Why don't we go to your place tonight?" he asked, pausing. 

Draco looked over his shoulder and said, "Another time." 

"We always go to mine though." 

"Is that a problem?" Draco turned and walked back. 

"No, of course not. I want to see how you live." 

"Trust me, Potter, there's nothing to see." 

" _Harry_." He was getting a little irritated at having to constantly remind Draco to use his given name. 

"Sorry." Draco cocked his head, as though he were thinking. "Erm - fine then. I guess, let's go." 

"Really?" 

"Sure. Harry." Draco flushed slightly, and Harry felt his heart race. There was something so enticing about Draco blushing. His mind began cataloging a list of new places they could have sex, and Harry grabbed Draco's hand to lead him down that happy path. 

"You know, there's one thing I haven't figured out yet," Draco said as they walked. 

"Hmm?" 

"How did you manage to find a place to buy here?" 

Harry smiled. "My grandparents owned Hillside Cottage, a long time ago." 

"And what, they gave it to you?" 

"Yeah. Well, they never sold it. The deed was in my vault at Gringotts. I'd been asking Hermione to visit mine every now and then, whenever I needed money. One day, she found the deed under a pile of galleons." 

Draco snorted. "God, that just figures, doesn't it. Only you would just fall into more property." 

"You didn't really think it was the coffee that brought me here, did you?" Harry squeezed Draco's hand. 

" _No_." Draco gave him a light shove. 

As they approached Draco's cottage, Harry noticed something odd. 

"You don't have any neighbours." 

"Correct." 

"How did you manage that?" 

"I looked for a place that wasn't surrounded by busybodies, and this was the first one," Draco said. "Terrible name though, Primrose Cottage." He turned the key in the door and pushed it open. 

Harry was astonished at the sight that met him. He had to pause in the middle of removing his shoes to look around and take everything in. 

Not that there was much to take in. 

Draco's home was barren. It was completely devoid of any sort of personal touches. There were no photos, trinkets, or keepsakes of any sort. There was no artwork on the plain-coloured walls. A single blue rug lay in the middle of the living room. All the furniture was black. 

Harry frowned. "So, can I have the tour?" 

Draco looked around. "This is pretty much it. Jigsaw puzzles and books are in that cupboard, kitchen's over there, and the bedroom and bathroom are there," he said, pointing to each. 

Harry kissed his forehead. "I'm going to have a look around." 

He wasn't sure what he was expecting though. Aside from the books and puzzles, there was no indication as to what kind of person occupied this space. Harry felt a pang in his chest as he entered the bedroom and sat on the bed. There was so much more to Draco than this. He knew there was. He pulled open the top drawer of the bedside table and furrowed his brow. The only thing inside was an old Muggle sweets tin. And that seemed an odd sort of thing for anyone to keep around, let alone Draco. 

Harry picked it up and went back to the living room, where Draco was thumbing through a book. "What's this?" he asked. There was a knot in his stomach, though he didn't know why. 

Draco looked up, and his face fell. "It's nothing." 

Harry sat down next to him. "Your whole house is full of nothing. And this." He shook the tin. "What is it?" 

With a heavy sigh, Draco said, "It's a portkey. If I ever - well, when the time comes, it'll take me to St. Mungo's." 

It took a few moments for the words to fully register. Harry blinked himself back to reality. Everything had gone a bit blurry, and Draco was holding his hands, looking concerned. 

"Harry," he said, and that more than anything brought Harry's focus back. "I know we've been avoiding the issue, but I think we need to talk about this. About what's going to happen to me." Draco reached for the tin and placed it on the coffee table, then pulled Harry to him. 

Harry threw his arms around Draco's neck. "I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry I've made it so difficult. I'm supposed to be comforting you and -" 

"You are comforting me, and it's all right. It hasn't exactly been necessary to talk about this. Not until..." 

"Not until now," Harry finished. He pulled back to look Draco in the eye. "It's going to happen soon, isn't it?" _You're getting ready to leave_. 

Draco's face twitched, just a little. "I don't know. It's all been so hard to predict. But it seems my heart is winning against my other organs in the race towards failure." 

"What do you mean though, how can you not know?" 

"That's just how the curse works." Draco shrugged helplessly. "My blood is poisoned. That blood gets pumped all over my body. There are too many variables to say which organs are going to fail first." 

Harry nodded. Draco had explained this to him before, and he heard the words again. Some of them even registered. His mind scrambled desperately, as it had done numerous times already, trying to come up with some sort of solution. How had he managed to survive Voldemort, survive the Killing Curse twice, and something as simple as this couldn't be helped? His eyes went to the tin on the table. It was bright red and had a faded, smiling girl on it, holding up some sort of chocolate. 

"Why was that in your bedroom?" he asked. "If you don't know when you'll need it, why aren't you carrying it with you all the time?" 

The look Draco gave him made Harry wish he hadn't asked. "Truth be told, I wasn't sure I'd actually use it." 

It took a moment for Harry to understand. It was hard to look at Draco when he asked, "Why?" 

"I just felt it would be wasted effort... you can't save a dying man. I made my peace with death a long time ago." 

Harry nodded. He remembered that. He had made peace with death once before as well, had walked willingly towards it. 

Draco reached to cradle Harry's head with a hand. "Listen to me," he said softly. "I'll understand if you want to stop this - stop seeing me. If you want to spare yourself from having to be with me when it happens. I could never hold it against you." 

Harry blinked once, twice, a dozen times, trying to keep the hot tears from forcing their way out. He pulled back and looked at Draco, took in everything about him. "I don't want to stop." 

He couldn't. 

**** 

Harry tried desperately to keep himself occupied. 

When he wasn't with Draco, pretending time didn't exist, he worked on his book, or wrote in his journal. And now that it was warm again, he began spending more time in his garden. He'd forgotten nearly everything from Herbology, and his knowledge concerning non-magical plants didn't amount to much either. Still, gardening seemed to be an integral part of owning a cottage, and Mrs. Wilder had encouraged him to give it a go when he'd first moved in. 

It wasn't so bad, he decided. There was something gratifying about having his hands in the dirt as he cultivated his own personal Eden. 

Still, as spring neared its end, Harry's joy and satisfaction became overshadowed with a swell of unease each time he stood up and brushed the sweat from his brow. He faced the sun one warm June afternoon, shielding his eyes as he surveyed the primrose cuttings he had just planted. Draco liked to complain about how poorly named his cottage was, since there was no primrose to be found anywhere near it. Harry always rolled his eyes and smiled, but he'd decided to try propagating some from the small patch that lived in a shady corner of his own garden. With any luck, he'd be able to re-plant the grown cuttings around Draco's cottage next year. 

It would be a nice surprise if he lived long enough. 

_Stop_. 

Harry pushed the thought away. He had to carry on like there would be some kind of future. One with Draco in it. Because Harry was too fragile to face reality. The facts were still too fresh and new, and almost impossible to believe when he looked at Draco, when he saw him smile and complain and go to work every single day like nothing was wrong. Everything was all so normal for him, so it had to be normal for Harry, too. And the only way that could happen was if he shoved it all out of his head and lied to himself. 

He went inside to shower. 

There were times, of course, when Harry allowed the truth free rein in his conscious mind. Always at his discretion, in the shower, because there at least it was easy and almost natural to confuse tears with water droplets. It was easy to convince himself that _that_ was why his cheeks were wet. Not because he was too inconsolably grief-stricken to fathom, much less accept the facts of life and death. 

He looked at the clock when he got out of the shower, towelling his hair dry. It was something he did more and more often these days, always checking the time. It passed so quickly, or at least it seemed to. Its steady, stubborn progression drove Harry mad. It felt like there was nothing he could do to capture even just a few seconds of it. 

He got dressed and went to the dining table to decide whether he felt like working on his book or attempting to expel his misery into his journal. 

That was when he saw the photo album Mrs. Wilder had given him. 

Of course. He pulled it over and flipped it open to the middle, staring at the photos without seeing them. Of fucking course. Why hadn't Harry thought of this earlier? Photos! What a bloody novel concept. He felt like such an idiot. 

He glanced at the clock again and bit his lip. There wasn't a camera in the house, and the urge to go and buy one right then warred with his desire to go to the bookshop and see Draco. 

No. He decided he'd buy one the next day - the day before Draco's birthday. He had to go shopping for his gift anyhow. 

That decided, Harry grabbed his journal and left for the bookshop. 

**** 

Draco's birthday dawned bright and sunny, and it fell on a Sunday. It was the first Sunday Harry spent entirely in his company, and it began in Draco's bed. 

"Happy birthday," he whispered into Draco's hair that morning. 

"Sleeping, Potter," Draco mumbled. 

"Harry." 

"Sorry. What time is it?" 

Harry looked over at the clock. "Half eight." 

"God." 

He smiled. "I'll go make breakfast." 

Draco flopped onto his back and stretched. "I need to take my potions first." 

"So take them." Harry tossed the covers back. "I'll see you in the kitchen." 

**** 

Harry wasted no time in bringing out his new camera. He left Draco to finish his breakfast while he fetched it, and snapped a candid shot of him spooning cereal into his mouth. 

His spoon clattered into the bowl. "What the hell is that?" 

Harry flashed him a wide smile. "It's a camera. I thought we could take some photos together." 

Draco's mouth hung open for a moment. "Oh. Well. Sure." He gave an apologetic smile in return. "That's a good idea." 

"Just a few," Harry promised. 

**** 

They went out for an early dinner at one of Cartmel's nicest restaurants. 

Maybe it was something about the light, or the fact that he'd worn Harry's favourite midnight blue jumper, but Draco looked positively radiant. Better than he had in weeks, if Harry thought about it. It was difficult to tear his focus away, and at the end of the meal, he couldn't even remember what either of them had eaten. 

He laced their fingers together on the walk back to the poorly-named Primrose Cottage. It was the kind of day Harry wished could last forever. The evening sun cast a golden light over everything, and flowers spilled onto the path. Tourists and villagers were out in force, but their numbers dwindled as Harry and Draco approached the small, blue cottage. 

"Aren't you hot?" Harry asked as they stepped inside and removed their shoes. 

"No. These days, I'm usually cold, actually." 

"Isn't there a potion you can take for that?" 

They moved to the sofa. Draco propped his feet in Harry's lap and flopped backward onto a pillow. 

"I'm convinced there's a potion you can take for everything," Draco said. 

_Except healing that damn curse_. 

"Anyway, I had to stop taking it," he continued. "It was causing one of the others to be less effective." 

Harry nodded. He realised how stiffly he was sitting and forced himself to lean back. 

"D'you want to open your gift?" he asked. 

Draco looked over at him, curious. "A gift? You didn't need to get me anything." 

"I know. That's why it's fun." He reached into his pocket and placed a rectangle the size of his thumb nail on top of the coffee table. Draco squinted at it. "Er, give me a moment," Harry said, then plucked his wand from between the sofa cushions to return the rectangle back to its normal size. 

"Oh!" Draco sat up to get a better look. Harry smiled and watched his eyes take in every detail of the box. It was another jigsaw puzzle for Draco to add to his collection, and it featured a very detailed map of the stars. It also had the words _Glows in the dark!_ written across it in six different languages. 

"I didn't see that one in the cupboard," Harry said. "But I did see all the astronomy books." 

Draco turned to look at him, eyes shining with appreciation. "I love it." He placed the box back on the table. 

"I figured you would," Harry said softly. "So which one is your favourite?" 

"Which what?" 

"Constellation." He carded his fingers through Draco's hair, short and soft, and watched his eyes close in contentment. 

"Orion." 

"Really? Not 'Draco'?" 

"The legends say Orion was stung by a scorpion, and the venom was so poisonous it killed him." Draco smirked. "A bit like me, wouldn't you say?" 

Harry's hand stilled. "That's not funny." 

Draco opened his eyes. "I know. It wasn't meant to be." 

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "Let's put this together sometime, yeah?" 

"That would be nice." 

Dangling in the air was, of course, the question of whether they would even have time to put it together. Harry wondered if they were both thinking the same thing. It wouldn't be prudent to fall apart just then, on an otherwise perfect day, but the tears were there, threatening to escape. 

Grief was an odd thing. When you hadn't lost someone yet, it was strange to miss them. Looking into Draco's eyes, Harry understood then. Everything in the past was too much, and there was no future. There was only the present, and even that wasn't enough. 

_Don't. Don't think about that now. Just don't think_. He reached a hand behind Draco's head and pulled him close to kiss him hard. 

"I really want you," he said, breaking apart. 

A hand snaked down his chest to cup his erection, and the next thing he knew, Draco slid to the floor on his knees, pushing Harry's legs apart. 

"No," Harry said. "Not like that." 

Draco gave a lascivious grin and stood. "That's fine, too." He began undoing the buttons on his trousers. 

Harry stood and put two fingers into the exposed waistband of Draco's pants. "Bedroom," he commanded, then tugged Draco along with him and pushed him onto the bed. 

He didn't even bother turning on the lights. 

He ripped the rest of the buttons on Draco's trousers open and pulled everything off in one swift motion. Harry's clothes joined Draco's on the floor in quick succession before he launched himself at Draco. His hands raked up Draco's sides, catching on his jumper to push it up and over his head, and then he crushed their mouths together. In desperate search of closeness, he curled his tongue around Draco's. 

It wasn't enough. 

He pulled away and sat up, breathing hard as he took in Draco's body splayed out before him, eyes lingering over the thin trail of hair that led to his straining erection. He placed his hands on Draco's thighs and pushed them apart, then settled himself down between them and ran his tongue up the length of Draco's cock. 

Draco moaned and tried to draw his legs up. Harry firmly pressed them back down on the bed and took the length of his cock into his mouth, running his tongue in lazy circles around the head, the sounds from Draco making his head spin. 

Trembling hands worked their way into his hair, and Harry looked up to see Draco's panting, flushed face. The moonlight coming in from the window cast an otherworldly glow upon him. Harry's heart felt full to bursting, and in that moment, everything slid into place as realisation struck. It was all so simple. 

He closed his hand around Draco's cock, drawing back the foreskin and taking him back inside his mouth, where he belonged. He heard Draco's feet scrabbling for purchase on the quilt, trying to thrust into Harry's mouth. 

And Harry let him. He wanted Draco to have everything, wanted to give him everything, even though it wasn't enough. 

It never would be. 

Draco's cries were getting desperate, and Harry felt his cock stiffen just a little bit more against his tongue, felt the first spurt of come hit the back of his throat. 

"Oh god, Harry, Harry, Harry..." 

Harry loved him. 

It seemed inevitable, obvious, but the realisation spun a fervent need he tried desperately to quench as he swallowed around Draco, glad to take anything he would give. 

It wasn't enough. 

**** 

Nights were difficult. 

Mornings were sweet and placid, and there was everything good about them. Nights were the exact opposite. 

There was nothing to distract Harry from his thoughts as he lay in bed, trying to fall asleep. It didn't matter whether Draco had just sucked him off so thoroughly he'd almost blacked out. It didn't matter whether the sounds of squeaky bed springs and Draco's moaning played through his mind like a soothing melody. His thoughts invariably went back to time. It was insidious, and it fled so quickly when he wasn't even looking. And even when he was, there was nothing he could do. 

He shifted, rolling over onto his side and running a hand through Draco's hair, inhaling. 

"My hair," Draco murmured. 

Harry smiled, but tears ran down his face and soaked into the pillow. Even as more time had passed, nothing had become easier. He still couldn't accept this, and it was getting harder to ignore. Moments of Draco's pain snuck through, and what could Harry do? What could he say? He wondered how much Draco was hiding, but knew it would kill him to ask. 

Harry’s heart ached at the most inopportune moments now, and he occasionally lost control over his own pain as well. They took turns holding each other through the worst of it, because in the end, there was nothing else to do. 

Nights were difficult because he hated to fall asleep, hated to have so much time pass in the blink of an eye. But staying awake, watching the clock, was its own form of torture. Each tick of a minute rolling by registered as a keen loss in Harry's heart. 

Draco had stopped saying it, but Harry knew the offer was still there, if he decided to leave. If things got too difficult. 

He could never. 

He was too far gone at that point. So in love that to stop things now would almost feel worse than what was to come. He knew that if he left Draco, he would never be able to live with himself. And he had a lot longer to go. 

He kissed Draco's forehead and felt a mix of joy and guilt when grey eyes blinked open. 

"Are you all right?" Draco asked, voice thick with sleep. 

Harry ran his hand through Draco's hair again. "I love you, you know." He hadn't even planned to say it, but the words fell out so easily. 

Draco smiled. He looked relieved. "I love you, too." 

And with a content sigh, he burrowed his head deeper into the pillow, nestled closer to Harry, and fell back asleep. 

It was a long night. 

**** 

Harry dumped the puzzle pieces onto the table. Several fell to the floor, and he bent down to pick them up. 

Draco began coughing, and Harry poked his head up. "Are you okay?" 

"Just the bloody puzzle dust." He coughed some more. "I'm fine." 

"Would you actually tell me if you weren't?" Harry placed the handful of pieces onto the coffee table, right side up, and joined Draco in flipping all the other pieces over. 

"You know I would. That's an edge." He took it from Harry and added it to the pile of other edge pieces. "I probably wouldn't be able to hide it from you anyway." 

Harry wasn't so sure about that. Unless he explicitly asked, Draco didn't exactly volunteer information about how he was feeling. So Harry had taken to asking him, much more often now, how he felt each day. And while Draco frowned or rolled his eyes, he always answered. 

He was right about one thing though - when he felt miserable enough, it was impossible to hide. 

Not that this made Harry feel any better. It was so hard to be unable to help him. So hard to do nothing and pretend everything was okay until it wasn't. In an odd way though, when things suddenly weren't okay, it brought them closer together. When Draco was freezing cold but pale and sweating, Harry took Draco to bed and cast Warming charms in the bedroom, then curled up next to him protectively. When he complained of chest pain, Harry cast various Cushioning charms to help him find a comfortable position to lay in while it passed. 

It was agony wondering if each time was the last. It hurt to watch. But Harry was always glad to be there for him. It was the least he could do. 

Now that there were a good number of edge pieces, Harry reached for the pile and began snapping all the wrong ones together. 

He just didn't have the knack for this. But there wasn't much Draco could do these days, and if puzzles brought him some measure of satisfaction, then Harry was happy to join him. 

Even when they walked to and from the bookshop together, Harry could see. As summer had progressed and now neared its end, the 15-minute walk had become a 20-minute walk, and then 25 minutes, since Draco needed to pause and sit once or twice along the way. 

He glanced over at the side table, on which perched a lamp and a framed photo. It was one of the photos Harry had taken on Draco's birthday. He'd set the self-timer on the camera and perched it on a stack of books, then ran back to throw his arms around Draco, just in time to flash a smile at the camera. 

Even now, only a few months later, there was a marked difference in Draco's appearance when compared to the photo. Now his skin was tinged slightly grey, and he looked exhausted all the time. And that was on a good day. 

**** 

It was hot. 

That was Harry's first thought when he woke up one morning in early October. But Draco had been especially cold the night before, and so they'd made sure to cast strong Warming charms about the room. 

He tore the blanket away from himself, careful to leave Draco covered. He clung to Harry as always, soft blond hair tickling Harry’s nose with the faint scent of peaches. 

Harry pressed a kiss to Draco’s clammy forehead and inhaled. 

"No," Draco mumbled into his chest and burrowed closer to him. 

Harry smiled. "Time to get up." He was sweating, but he didn't want to get out of bed. Just a few more minutes. 

Draco groaned, then finally rolled onto his back and yawned. 

"I'll get breakfast," Harry said, ruffling Draco's hair. He got out of bed, put on last night's clothes, and made his way to the kitchen. 

He poured a glass of orange juice for Draco while his coffee brewed. There were blueberry muffins they'd brought back from the bookshop yesterday. He put two on a plate and left everything on the kitchen table. 

Harry could still hear the sound of the shower going, so he went back into the living room and sat down on the sofa. They had begun working on the constellation jigsaw puzzle earlier that week and were nearly finished already. He had to marvel at Draco's capacity to sit hunched over the table for hours at a time, methodically snapping pieces together. Harry could never focus for more than an hour or two, and then he'd turn his attention to discovering what it took to break Draco's concentration. 

The shower turned off, and after ten more minutes and four puzzle pieces, Draco walked into the living room. He paused by the coffee table and crossed his arms. "I thought we agreed, no puzzles in the morning. I can't be late for work." 

"Yeah, but we're almost finished," said Harry, waving a piece at him like a carrot. 

Draco screwed up his face in thought for a moment. He looked a bit flushed, but that was probably from the shower - he liked the water scalding hot. "All right, fine," he said. "I'll get our breakfast then." 

Harry nodded and returned to the puzzle. 

"Harry," Draco called in a tense voice. 

Harry shook his head and got up, pocketing the piece he'd been trying to place. Draco was probably trying to carry everything in one trip. 

But Harry froze when he stepped into the kitchen. Draco stood leaning stiffly with one hand against the kitchen table, face red and sweaty. 

"Harry, please -" 

Harry ran. The bedroom seemed so far away, and why in the _hell_ did Draco ever insist on keeping that fucking portkey in his bedside table? 

He had barely snatched the tin and Draco's wand when he heard a plate smashing to the floor in the kitchen. 


	8. Primrose Cottage

Harry watched the delicate instruments that sat on a small table next to Draco's bed. They bobbed and rotated and swung back and forth. He had no idea what they were supposed to do. Somebody had probably explained it to him, but he couldn't remember. 

He lay next to Draco on the bed, stroking his hair, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest as he slept. Sunlight poured in through the windows, and Harry could almost pretend they were back in his cottage, just waking up. This couldn't be it, surely. Not when they'd barely said good morning to each other. 

He pressed a kiss to Draco's clammy forehead, and grey eyes fluttered open. 

"Harry," he breathed, turning his head to look around. "I'm still here." 

"Of course you are," said Harry. 

"I guess I wasn't as certain as you." Draco gave a pained smile. 

Harry bent to kiss him, to reassure him, to comfort him. He pulled away at the sound of brisk footsteps entering the otherwise empty ward. 

"Whitby," said Draco. "Didn't think I'd see your arse again." 

Whitby settled himself into a chair next to the bed and gave a tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "How are you feeling?" 

"I wouldn't be here if I were doing fine." 

"Well, we've been administering potions to help you feel comfortable." He indicated the instruments on the table. "If you're in too much discomfort, we can always give you more." 

Draco shook his head. "Not right now." 

Whitby pulled out his wand and looked over at Harry. "Mr. Potter," he said, "If you don't mind, I need to perform some diagnostic spells. It'll only take a few minutes." 

"Oh, sure." He sat up and scooted out of the way. 

Draco closed his eyes. "Do your worst." 

Harry had no idea what sorts of spells Whitby performed, since they were all nonverbal. Whitby tucked his wand back into his robes after a few minutes and scribbled on his parchment. Harry took that as his cue that it was okay to lay down next to Draco again. 

"Let me guess," Draco said, "I'm dying." 

Whitby sighed, pursing his lips. "I'll be blunt. Your heart is very weak. It's unlikely you'll last the night." 

Harry wondered if everyone could hear his heart pounding. His hand stilled where it had been rubbing Draco's cheek. 

Draco nodded slowly. "All right." 

"If there's anything at all I can do for you..." Whitby said. 

Draco shook his head. "It's been five years. You've done enough." 

"I wish I could've done more." Whitby's eyes went to Harry. "If you need anything, I'll be here. My office is straight at the end of the corridor." 

Harry nodded. His entire face felt numb. 

Draco held out a hand, and Whitby clasped it in both of his to give one firm shake before he stood to leave. 

**** 

"I wonder what's happening at the bookshop," Harry said. 

Draco snorted. "Nothing, I imagine. Never did manage to open it today, did I?" 

"Poor Mrs. Wilder never got her coffee. Did you know she's had a cup at nine o'clock everyday for the last 60 years?" 

"She's mentioned it once or twice." Draco turned to face Harry. "You should go and get something to eat." 

"I'm staying with you," he said. "Anyway, I'm not hungry." And he realised it was true. His stomach had been in knots ever since they'd arrived. 

They'd lain in bed the whole day, talking. The hours sped by, and now with the sun going down, Harry felt the weighty press of time bearing down upon them. He pulled Draco close and kissed him, slow and deep. 

He had no idea how long they lay there, mouths pressed together, arms clutching each other tightly. When Harry opened his eyes, he saw tears running down Draco's face. Aside from the one brief incident in their sixth year, this was a new sight for him - Draco had never cried in front of him. 

"What's wrong?" Harry whispered. He'd never seen Draco look quite so sad or lost. 

"I'm scared," Draco said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'm really scared. I just - I don't want it to hurt." 

"I know." Harry reached out to cup his cheek. 

"What's it like?" 

"What?" 

"You've died before." Draco bit his lip. 

"Oh," said Harry. "I..." His mind was suddenly all over the place. 

"Does it hurt?" 

Harry thought back to that day, over five years ago now. He remembered the fear, the flash of green light, the surreal out-of-body moment just before. But that was it. 

"You won't feel a thing. I promise." 

Draco looked so lost as he nodded against the pillow, gazing into Harry's eyes. "Don't leave me," he said. 

"I won't." He pulled Draco to him. "I won't." 

**** 

Harry tried to stay awake. 

He didn't want to fall asleep. He wanted to be awake, in case Draco needed anything. It was the least he could do. 

For now though, Draco slept. 

And Harry watched him in the moonlight. 

Now it was okay for him to cry. He missed Draco already, even though he was right there, even though his hair tickled Harry's chin and their bodies were pressed together. He couldn't imagine how much he'd miss Draco when he was no longer there. 

**** 

Harry woke up groggy the next morning, just as the sun began to peek over the horizon. 

Draco was burrowed against him as always, head tucked under Harry's chin. 

Harry made to press a kiss to his forehead, and he halted. 

There were no slow, heavy breaths against his chest. 

He blinked. His face felt wet. 

A strangled cry echoed. 

The room felt so empty. 

Even when Healers came in and found Harry, tried to calm him down, that was all he could think. 

Everything felt so empty. 

They tried to take him somewhere. He had no idea where - just that it was somewhere away from Draco. 

He had to go back to bed, back to Draco. He'd promised he wouldn't leave, and they were already trying to take him away. He screamed and shouted at them, trying to tear their arms away. 

Someone shouted a spell, and Harry's world went black. 

**** 

When Harry woke again, he saw Hermione and Ron sitting beside him. Somebody had dressed him in a hospital gown, so he must still be in St. Mungo's, though he had no idea where. 

It didn't really matter. 

His friends leapt up when they saw he was awake. Their mouths opened, like they wanted to say something. 

Harry turned away and curled in on himself. Tears leaked out, an endless torrent of them. When was it going to stop? 

"Harry," Hermione said softly, but he didn't answer. 

"Here, take this," she tried again. 

He turned his head and saw she held out a small bottle of Dreamless Sleep. 

That sounded good. Dreamless Sleep. That was where Draco was - in an endless, dreamless sleep. He needed to be there, too. 

He took the bottle and downed it in one swallow. 

**** 

It was about a week, Harry learnt, that he'd been in St. Mungo's. 

Sometimes Hermione and Ron were there. Sometimes they weren't. 

It didn't really matter. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at himself. He'd just put on his clothes and shoes. The same ones he'd been wearing when they'd first arrived. They looked the same and fit the same, but something about them was different. 

Wrong. 

Then again, everything felt that way. 

The Healers wouldn't give him any more Dreamless Sleep, so Harry had decided it was time to leave. 

There was just one thing left to do. 

He picked up the tin from the side table and walked out. Somehow, between the time Harry had arrived at St. Mungo’s and now, the lid had become dented. Outside, nobody bothered to stop him or ask if he needed help. They were all too busy rushing around, going about their business. Somehow, that was still possible. 

He wandered up and down the corridor until he found the stairs. 

_Spell Damage_ was posted on a sign when he reached the fourth floor, and he pushed the door open, holding his breath as he rushed down the corridor, past the place where Draco had last told Harry he loved him. 

At the end of the corridor, _N. P. Whitby_ was written in plain lettering on the door. Harry let out his breath and raised his hand to knock. 

The door swung open. 

"Mr. Potter." Whitby sat behind a desk, writing something. He waved Harry in. "I thought your friends were going to take you home tomorrow." 

Home. 

Harry didn't know where home was. That word held no meaning for him any longer. 

"The Healers wouldn't give me any more Dreamless Sleep, so I decided to leave today." 

"I'm sorry," said Whitby. "Sit down, please." He held a hand out, indicating the empty chair in front of his desk. 

"I'm okay," Harry lied. He imagined Draco in that chair, and he just couldn't. "I just wanted to return this." He placed the tin on the edge of the desk and slid it towards Whitby. "Thanks, by the way," he mumbled. "For helping him." 

Whitby took the tin in both hands and ran his thumbs over the lid. "You did more for him than I did." 

The air in the office felt stifling then, and Harry couldn't stay there any longer. He turned on his heel and left, quietly shutting the door behind him as his breath came in quick, heaving gasps. 

**** 

Draco's funeral was a week later. 

He'd been insistent right up until the end that nobody should know he was dying. 

_"No one can know. I mean it, Harry."_

_"But... not even your parents?"_

_"What good would it do?" Draco said bitterly. "By now they've already made up some story about me where I've run away and am living happily ever after. Let them have that."_

And so Harry hadn't told anyone from their past, aside from Hermione and Ron. 

The funeral was held in the Cartmel cemetery. Everyone in the village seemed to be there, and Harry actually felt grateful for that. It would have bothered Draco to know he had affected so many people's lives in spite of his best efforts. Mrs. Wilder had held Harry for a long time afterward, rubbing his back as he sobbed into her jacket. She was the only person he believed when she said, "I know how you feel, if you ever want to talk about it." She had lost her husband 20 years ago. 

But he didn't want to talk about it. 

He'd come to the bookshop after, alone. It felt like a mistake as soon as he entered, but all the familiar smells and sights coaxed him like a siren's song, and he stayed. 

He ran his fingers over the counter top. It was so easy to picture Draco sitting there, watching him with a playful smile, reminding him not to forget to pick up dinner. 

As though Harry _could_ forget. 

He paced the perimeter of the shop, pausing outside the store room, finally withdrawing his keys to unlock the door and push it open. A desk took up most of the room, with a blue leather notebook resting in the middle of it. Harry sat down in the chair, just as Draco must have done everyday, and started opening all the desk drawers, one by one. Each held at least a dozen bottles of different types of potion. The rest of his supply for October, he realised. He had no idea what all the potions were for. Draco didn't even know - he'd often said he just did what Whitby told him to do, as that was easier. 

Harry picked up a jar of some thick blue potion and shook it. He wondered what would happen if he just shut the door and took all of them himself. The idea was very tempting. 

He put the jar back, closed all the drawers. Boxes on the floor collected all the empty jars and vials. 

Harry sighed, picked up the journal, and moved to sit in his favourite chair out in the secluded nook. He clutched the journal in his lap and stared out at the river for a long time. He couldn't say how long - the clock on the wall had died, and it was entirely too quiet. 

But instinctively, he knew. He knew when Draco would come around, tap him on the shoulder, and Harry would turn around to watch him say, "I'm closing the shop. It's time to leave." 

As though Harry wasn't going to come right back with takeaway. 

Eventually, he made his way back towards the front of the shop, pausing again at the counter. It was more habit than anything else. He didn't expect Draco to suddenly be there. Not really. The curtains were already drawn, so he took out his wand and cast the charms to put everything back in place and clean the dust that had accumulated. 

Just before leaving, he went behind the counter and knelt down to go through the stack of blankets and pulled out the one Draco always handed him. He saw the book Draco had been reading and took that as well. 

With one last look around, Harry closed the door and locked the shop, just as Draco would have done. 

**** 

It was strange, being back at this cottage. Draco's cottage. 

Well, except it was Harry's cottage now. 

He'd discovered the official letter and the land deed in Draco's journal, which was otherwise fairly rote in its contents - he'd used it to track potion dosages and symptoms. Harry planned to keep it. 

For some godforsaken reason though, he had chosen to bequeath his cottage to Harry. As though it made sense for anyone to own two homes in the same village, on completely opposite sides. Just what was he supposed to do with _that_? 

He reached into his pocket for the key, and pulled something else out with it. 

It was the puzzle piece he'd been trying to place that morning when Draco had called for him, begging him to get the portkey. He squeezed the piece hard between his fingers. It felt like some relic from another age. 

Harry wiped his eyes and went inside. All the lamps flickered on with a wave of his wand. 

Everything was just as it had been. Of course. It was just that they had settled into doing so many things without even thinking about them. And now it all stood out to him. How comfortably they had lived together. 

The damn jigsaw puzzle greeted him first. He couldn't believe how close they had been to finishing. His heart hurt to look at it, and so he averted his eyes. 

But everywhere held memories that were just too much. Somehow, despite how bare and unadorned Draco kept the place, they'd managed to make it a cosy, welcoming home. It was oppressive. It was hard to breathe. 

Maybe this had been a mistake. He couldn't remember why he came back, if he even had a reason. He hadn't been sleeping well, and he needed some time alone after the funeral. Anyone would. 

He went outside. He just needed a few minutes. It was a cold, clear night, and Harry was reminded that it was almost November. 

Already. 

He looked up at the sky, scanning until he found the familiar three stars that formed Orion's belt. The rest of the constellation came into focus, and he cocked his head. There it was - the harbinger of winter. Draco had said Orion was also called The Hunter, and that the stars depicted a figure bearing a sword and shield. To Harry though, it looked like a figure brandishing a wand in one hand and waving with the other. 

_"That's not how the legend goes," Draco said, when Harry explained what he saw._

_"Too bad. That's what I see."_

_"You're impossible."_

Impossible, yes. 

Everything seemed impossible now. 

**** 

Sunlight streaming in through the window woke Harry the next morning. 

The faint smell of peaches filled his nose, and for a moment, he almost dared to hope. 

Except Draco wasn't there when he opened his eyes. It was only the pillow. Harry rolled over and planted his face into it and inhaled. 

That was the thing he hated most. 

All the little things - the smells and sounds and memories that had only ever registered in his subconscious - they all came to haunt him now, always at the most inconvenient times. 

Harry decided he hated mornings, hated having that precious intimacy stolen away from him day after day. Of course, Harry hated nights as well. He dreaded going to sleep. The mere thought of waking up was bad enough. The thought of waking up without Draco was unbearable. 

He launched himself out of bed and flung the window open to take several chest-clearing breaths of cold air. 

When his entire face felt numb, Harry closed the window. He didn't want to eat breakfast, didn't want to go into the kitchen, but it had been a long time since he had eaten. In fact, he couldn't remember his last meal. 

A tapping noise from the living room dragged Harry from his thoughts. Who even knew he was here? Hermione or Ron wouldn't have bothered to knock, so it couldn't have been them. 

It was an owl. 

Multiple owls, in fact. Harry stared at them all in horror, wondering if he should let them in. It seemed that an owl's magic didn't register whether a letter's recipient had died. They'd probably just keep returning, piling up, haunting him, like everything else in the house surely would. 

He opened the window, and they glided in one after the other. All eight of them. Harry snatched the letters away and yelled, warning them never to come back. Tears streaked his face by the time they had all finally gone. If there was one thing about Draco that had always irritated Harry, it was this. He had always thought it was profoundly unfair that Draco's friends and family should never know what had happened to him. Harry had scowled as he watched Draco cast _Incendio_ on all his letters every single time an owl came pecking at the window. 

He sighed, dropping the stack on the ground, exactly as Draco would have done. He took out his wand and pointed. 

" _Incendio_." 

**** 

Harry couldn't finish the puzzle. 

That was how he had spent the day. After incinerating Draco's post, he had sat down and stared at the puzzle for hours, until the sun went down. And then he continued to stare, because the damn thing glowed in the dark. The last 30 or so pieces mocked him. 

Maybe it was time to go. 

He didn't think he could go back to 12 Grimmauld Place. That had never felt like home to him. And he couldn't go back to Hillside Cottage. It was too close. He couldn't be in this village any longer. Hermione and Ron would welcome him. They expected him. He just didn't want to go. 

But he knew he couldn't stay here. He couldn't even go into the fucking kitchen. 

He finally stood and went to put on his shoes and jacket. He shut the door behind him with a soft click and locked it. His head leaned forward to rest against the worn wood. 

It hurt to leave this place, but that wasn't Draco's fault. Harry just needed time. 

It was another clear night out, and Harry looked up to find Orion again. It was easy this time - his eyes went right to it. He gave it a wave, then pulled his wand out and murmured a spell. He repeated the incantation over and over, until Primrose Cottage had a thick growth of the stuff all around the perimeter. 

He didn't understand why Draco had never done that himself. Probably, he just liked having something innocuous to whinge about on occasion, since Harry had always quieted him with a kiss. 

"I'll be back," he promised. 

With a last look over his shoulder, he vanished with a pop. 

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to leave some love for the creator if you can! Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://hd-hurtfest.tumblr.com/) on the H/D Hurt!Fest tumblr page!


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